Gambit
by Fatality
Summary: (Kings and Pawns Book II, sequel to The Rook) In the hallowed halls of the Shadow Mages College, a disgraced loremaster risks everything in a desperate attempt to return to his sovereign's favor. In the tumultuous recesses of a doppelganger's mind, a shadow sorcerer who longed for death now struggles to come to grips with the cursed half-life he cannot escape.
1. Chapter One - Revolution Roulette

The chamber was private, soundproof, and of a comfortable temperature – it made for an ideal atmosphere, one conducive to superior spellcasting. He settled in to read just before the dawn at a simple wooden desk and three-legged chair that stood level if he centered his weight just so, impervious to the fact that his secret study was altogether lightless with the door closed. All he needed was the first symbol of the phrase where he had paused in his study the night previous, and he had carefully memorized it before drifting off to sleep – the moment he spoke it the rune illuminated and drifted off the weathered page as though possessed of a life all its own, and that gentle green phosphorescence was more than enough light for him to read by.

By mid-morning the air around him was crackling with an electricity that he could feel deep down in the marrow of his bones, a by-product of the dozens of symbols shimmering like fireflies all around him. Lesser mortals might have been unnerved by the increasing influx of ancient arcane magic filling the room but he received the energy willingly, for that magic had been a part of their race since the very beginning and had preserved the strongest of them through even the most devastating of hardships. He sat there still as a statue but for the occasional movement of his right hand when it moved to turn yet another page; each time he did so reverently, marveling anew at each new material beneath his fingers. Most of the original pages were vellum, but others had been penned upon the skin of lesser races – humans, elves, tanar'ri, genasi – and still others were constructed of enchanted sheets of thin crystal where the symbols appeared to have been painstakingly chiseled in but the page was still as flexible and fragile as parchment.

Twice he paused just to admire the ponderous tome's unique cover, for it was heavy slate lined with the venerable hide of an elder blue dragon. Those who existed beyond the Great Seal might call it one of a kind, but the Deep Imaskari knew that was not the case – even so, that did nothing to sate his voracious appetite for knowledge. He read diligently, absorbing every syllable with great care, knowing that each individual symbol could be of vital importance. He knew that to overlook even the tiniest detail could result in utter disaster.

He finally ceased his study in the early evening, about a quarter of an hour before he knew High Lord Planner Illis Khendarhine would be consulting with his peers in the Emerald Atrium, and said, "Am I ready?"

The flickering runes drifting in the air dimmed then as a single cerulean spark flared to life before his keen hazel eyes; it moved as the point of a quill upon a sheaf of parchment guided by a scholar with elegant penmanship, spelling out the words he had longed to glimpse in brilliant sapphire phosphorescence: _Now is the time._

So he took the heavy volume in his hands and closed it with exaggerated care, and tucking it beneath one arm he pushed open the door and carried on about his business.

His lodgings and his private study resided in the Garnet Quarter, the sector nearest to the Great Seal; he passed by it every day on his way to the Atrium, where he was required to report the results of his diligent study of the tome to the High Lord Planner. On this day he lingered near the crackling, enchantment-riddled shield that separated Deep Imaskar from the Underdark just long enough to inspect the small tear in the magical seam where he and a small group of like scholars had ventured beyond the boundaries of the city two lunar cycles ago; unfazed by the vaguely suspicious gazes of the lesser wizards who had been appointed to patrols at this hour he reached out with his left hand and traced the ragged edges of the seam lovingly with a trace of agony in his eyes. Enlightened as he now was with the secrets of his ancestors echoing through his mind he could see the distinct fractures in the shield that Lord Apprehender Ebrul's cabal of spellcasters hadn't quite been able to mend. This came as no surprise to him; the magic his people now wielded was mighty, but it paled in comparison to that which the wizard-kings of Imaskar had once employed.

Briefly he considered the notion that at least a portion of that knowledge now resided within him.

He ran his index finger the length of the seam a little more confidently this time and felt the tome tucked protectively beneath his right arm grow somewhat warmer as it filled him with its magic potential; the ragged edges grew brighter for a moment, shining an iridescent magenta in the light of the fuchsia faerzress that illuminated the Garnet Quarter, and then knit themselves back together almost instantaneously. Impervious to the ever-present crackling of the shield's energy he leaned his face in close to inspect it, pleased and momentarily awed to find that the impurity had all but disappeared in barely an instant.

The lesser wizards parted as he put them at his back, but converged upon the Great Seal at once the moment he was no longer standing between them; he ignored their excited, disbelieving whispers as he swept up the lane, but inwardly he was quite satisfied with the results. It had taken him no effort at all to repair the tear in the Great Seal, the enchanted defenses that Lord Ilphemon and his retinue from the surface world had labored tirelessly for many years to perfect. Did that mean that he could tear it down and subsequently restore it with ease whenever he had a need? Could further expeditions into the wilds of the Underdark become a possibility if the threat to the city could be minimized? He felt confident that this was the case, but there remained yet one additional matter to attend to first.

He made his way out of the Garnet Quarter and struck up a leisurely pace toward the Silver Hall, the dome-like structure at the center of the city that served as the seat of power for the High Lord Planner and his retainers. He was hailed frequently and was inwardly grateful that he had left his study with plenty of time to reach the Atrium before the session adjourned, for it was common knowledge amongst the people of Deep Imaskar that he had been responsible for successfully recovering the great tome he now carried on his person. The notion that they rupture the Great Seal and strike out into the uncharted caverns nearest to the city had been Ebrul's, and though it had been met with a general outcry of dissent the High Lord Planner had reluctantly agreed in the end. Ebrul and Furyma, the Lady Enactor, had unanimously chosen him to lead the initial excursion to locate the tome and he had delivered after a tenday of dedicated toil – not just the ancient text that their ancestors had penned, but something else as well.

The High Lord Planner had been most distressed to learn that drow were skulking in the tunnels so near to where the text was found, but most of them had been dispatched easily and the other two had been apprehended and brought back to Deep Imaskar for interrogation. He had personally questioned them both, and he had hand delivered the sword they carried to the High Lord Planner for safekeeping. How those two had escaped the city even he couldn't explain, but with the awe-inspiring arcane repertoire of the ancient tome he carried at his disposal he couldn't bring himself to be overly concerned with their disappearance any longer. He knew it was only a matter of time now before he caught up with them, and when he did he would recover the other volume they had stolen and send them swiftly to their deserved ends.

Each word of praise that came his way, every encouragement and every vote of thanks, served as an assurance that his course was the right one. His people were hardy and benevolent, and they did not deserve to remain shut away in the dank vaults deep beneath the earth – they deserved to feel the sun upon their hopeful faces and dance jubilantly beneath the cool light of the stars on the soil of their homeland. They were a proud and thriving civilization now but they had once been slaves, and before that refugees, and long before that they had been sorcerers renowned for their mastery of the arcane. As he stepped into the Silver Hall he silently swore that he would return them to the glory they had once known, no matter the cost.

He could hear the High Lord Planner issuing his closing remarks as he approached the crystalline archway that served as the entrance into the Emerald Atrium. The gate guard stepped up to deny him entrance but he froze the man where he stood with a mere glance; he hardly paused as he whisked by his now petrified kinsman, but he did offer him a single solemn nod as his promise that he would restore him to his natural state when his business was completed. He wasn't prone to acts of unprovoked barbarity and he certainly didn't delight in what he was about to do, but neither was he prepared to sit idly by and take no action. Now that he could properly utilize this power, it was his responsibility to act.

All activity ceased the moment he admitted himself; the atmosphere shifted from one of general confusion to one of goodwill when they recognized him, though, for which he was grateful. Illis Khendarhine, holder of the lofty title High Lord Planner and considered the leader of their city, rose from his seat at once and crossed the smooth crystalline floor in three leisurely strides to greet him; with a slender frame, skin the color of slate and dark eyes of jet he was considered the norm of their race by physical appearance at least, though with his generally warm disposition and trusting nature he was something of an anomaly where the private and guarded Deep Imaskari were concerned.

"Voltain Darkydle." Illis hailed him with his characteristic friendliness, both his smile and his handshake radiating sincerity. "You are most welcome, of course… Have you something of importance to share with us? It was my understanding that we were to discuss your most recent findings at the close of this meeting."

Voltain dropped the High Lord Planner's hand and scanned the Atrium inconspicuously, gauging the reactions of Illis's primary advisors before he formulated his response. Tallest amongst them and with a bald pate adorned with luminescent cerulean tattoos, Ebrul Naramixna hardly looked surprised to find him there – then again it was at Ebrul's prompting that he consider taking matters into his own hands, so it was likely the Lord Apprehender had some insight as to his true purpose here. The only member of the trio still seated was Furyma Selovan, the Lady Enactor and perhaps the most even-tempered among them – there was a touch of the exotic in her charcoal skin and her startling olive eyes, made ever more flattering by the light of the green faerzress for which the Emerald Atrium was named casting her features in a jade hue. She wore her dark hair in a plait down her back fastened with a simple iron clip and watched him with obvious intrigue, but Voltain didn't allow his gaze to linger upon her for long. Ebrul had once mentioned in passing that Furyma fancied him, and though Voltain hadn't rebuffed her he certainly had no desire to instill within her false hope. He was not interested in any sort of intimate companionship – all that he wanted from Furyma was her unwavering support in the changes he was about to bring about for their race, and nothing more.

"I will be brief," he began steadily, hardly afraid to share the true aim that had brought him here. What he wanted only Illis could grant him, and there could be no debate as to whether or not he was deserving of it. "I am here for the Third _Imaskarcana_."

Long ago, in the golden age when the Imaskari race had still inhabited the once-fertile lands that were now the barren and desolate stretches of the Raurin Desert, Voltain's great ancestor Lord Artificer Omanond had decreed that their vast empire's wealth of arcane knowledge be immortalized in writing. The most wizened scholars of that time had then penned the _Imaskarcana_ – seven ancient volumes in which was detailed the Imaskari mastery over the realm of the arcane and all of the secrets they had amassed in their extensive study of the Weave. Using these arcane secrets the Imaskari race would surely have extended their influence to encompass all of the surface world, but it was not to be – when the Entry of the Gods had occurred the slaves whom the Imaskari had entrusted to help secure the legacy of their mighty empire had risen in rebellion, their race had been decimated. Empowered by the god Ptah the slaves arose as divine minions and came down from the Godswatch Mountains, killing every Imaskari artificer who had the misfortune of falling in their path and slaughtering with abandon until the population dwindled to a mere handful. Just thinking of the carnage his ancestors had faced pained Voltain greatly, and he had to work to keep that agony from showing through in his expression.

It was believed that the Imaskari race had been completely eradicated following the Entry of the Gods, but there had been survivors who were able to flee before the divine minions of Ptah overwhelmed them. Led by Lord Ilphemon – a sorcerer of great power from whom Voltain was directly descended – a small group of refugees fled to the deepest vaults of the Underdark, believing that within the darkest bowels of the earth they might be safe from the fires of rebellion. After laboring many long years to rid the massive cavern of monsters and construct the enchanted shield that would become known as the Great Seal the Lord Ilphemon and his retainers founded the city of Deep Imaskar, now thought to be the only remaining settlement of Imaskari descendants the world over. They might still have perished in that lightless and merciless land had it not been for Lord Ilphemon, who had had the foresight to take the Third _Imaskarcana_ from the Artificer's Library before he fled; using the arcane secrets inscribed upon its timeless pages Ilphemon was able to preserve the refugees, as well as fortify their bodies and souls for survival in their new surroundings. It had taken countless centuries worth of experimentation – their race now had skin the color of stone and eyes that couldn't glimpse the sun without going blind – but through Ilphemon's innovations and determination they had survived.

When Lord Apprehender Ebrul had proposed that they fracture the Great Seal and allow a trusted few among their most talented artificers to explore the nearest neighboring tunnels Illis Khendarhine had been hesitant, and Voltain was certain he knew why. The Third _Imaskarcana_ was their most closely guarded treasure, their life support when their world had plummeted into chaos – the power of it or any of its sister texts in capable hands could surely spell the doom of them all. Ebrul had won Furyma's support for the expedition with simple logic – wasn't it better for the other volumes to be reclaimed by their own kinsman, rather than be stolen by some other vicious subterranean race bent on destroying them at the first opportunity? How long would they survive if one of those lost tomes found its way into the hands of the illithids, perhaps, or the dark elves? It couldn't be said that either of those races possessed the natural aptitude for the arcane that the Deep Imaskari did, but with an exceptional understanding of the Weave they could potentially pose a significant threat. In the end even Illis hadn't been able to deny the benefits of allowing the artificers to explore the adjacent tunnels – better his own people than anyone else, for was every other race not an enemy?

Voltain subconsciously tightened his grip upon the Fifth _Imaskarcana_, the artifact he had managed to recover from the labyrinthine passageways northeast of Deep Imaskar. How it had come to be within miles of their city and why he had found it abandoned within the rubble of a collapsed tunnel he suspected he would never know – nor did it matter in the end, of course – but he had his suspicions. He had wondered in the following days whether the group of artificers the High Lord Planner had sent beyond the Seal had been the first of such parties, or if Illis had sanctioned similar expeditions before. He wondered if Illis had somehow known all along that the Fifth _Imaskarcana_ was out there somewhere close by, and that he had been guarding that knowledge as closely as he now guarded the volume of the _Imaskarcana_ that currently resided in his possession. Though the Third _Imaskarcana_ had been passed down from one High Lord Planner to the next since the founding of Deep Imaskar, Voltain couldn't help but ponder whether this was a sound decision. Illis didn't want to use the knowledge with which he had been gifted to benefit his people – he wanted to use it to protect himself, and the weighty title he had grown so fond of over the years.

And on that matter, at least, Voltain and Illis would never see eye to eye.

Illis' eyes flitted momentarily to the ancient text that Voltain held cradled in the crook of his arm, and Voltain felt a sudden surge of all-consuming protectiveness toward the tome he carried. If the High Lord Planner insisted on trying to take the Fifth _Imaskarcana_ from him by force, he was prepared to defend it with all the strength he could muster. "I see you have been… _studying_… the volume you recovered from the Underdark. What could be written within it that would prompt you to turn against me, I wonder?"

"We should be using these, Illis," Voltain told him, utterly calm and unerringly focused. "The secrets immortalized within these pages are our salvation. If we utilize what we have we could return to the surface world and lay claim to the lands that were once our own, or at the very least expand Deep Imaskar into some of the neighboring caverns. The potential for advancement is limitless. Think of all that we could accomplish."

"I must admit," said Illis icily, in a tone that suggested he hadn't heard a word Voltain had said, "that when I agreed to allow you to study that text, I never dreamed you would rise up against me."

Voltain squared his shoulders and fixed the High Lord Planner with an even stare. "I am not questioning your authority and I am not challenging your position," he explained rationally. "I am urging you to make use of what we have been given, for the benefit of us all. And I am telling you that if you are not willing to do what is necessary, I will do so in your place."

"Voltain!" gasped Furyma, at last vacating her chair as a wave of shock washed over her face, but he didn't allow his eyes to focus on her. Illis Khendarhine was his concern now, not his advisor. Briefly he glanced Ebrul's way, and the Lord Apprehender nodded once in encouragement. Voltain was no fool – he knew that Ebrul was hoping to wrest power from Illis, and that when this upstart artificer supplanted him that he could simply take the mantle of High Lord Planner for himself. He needed Voltain for his own advancement – the moment Voltain's usefulness had run its course, Ebrul would utterly abandon him to whatever fate found him first.

He hadn't been entirely truthful with Ebrul either, but the Lord Apprehender would see that for himself soon enough.

"Give it to me," the High Lord Planner growled in a steely voice, and when he took a menacing step forward Voltain instinctively dropped back and crushed the tome even more tightly against his side. "It has corrupted your mind."

"I am seeing more clearly now than I ever have," argued Voltain coolly, "but if you believe your understanding of the Third _Imaskarcana_ might rival what I have learned in my weeks of study, then come and take it. Is that not the only way we might decide who is more worthy to wield both?"

Though he felt as though he had significant insight into Illis' character, Voltain was still quite taken aback by the way Illis chose to respond to his challenge.

Illis Khendarhine snarled and dropped into a predatory crouch, raw arcane energy rolling off his body in waves; the magic he emanated was a tangible thing, violently undulating colors and gusts of cruel wind and a keening howl that made Voltain want to clap his hands over his ears, but somehow he resisted that urge and kept his grip on the tome beneath his arm. Furyma's plait was whipping wildly around her face and Ebrul was gripping the back of his chair with all his might to avoid being swept off his feet in the gale, and it was all Voltain could do to shield his eyes with one arm and fight against the currents by distributing his weight alone. The colors of the magical field brightened in intensity, making Voltain's eyes water and threatening his balance with motion sickness, and when the unearthly keen reached a crescendo that threatened to rupture his eardrums Illis let loose with a pulse of arcane magic so intense that it ripped shards of green crystal from the ground underfoot as it passed.

Voltain clutched the Fifth _Imaskarcana _to his chest with all his might, prepared to defend it to the last, and managed to growl out the trigger phrase to a mighty spell he had only just memorized earlier that morning during his diligent hours of study. Immediately the effects of the spell – the nausea, the blindness, the howl and the gale – ceased to disturb him, and drawing himself up straight he recognized the thin silver sheen of defensive magic that had enveloped him in response to his incantation. Cradling the text in one arm he passed his hand over the cover, and when the pages fluttered open to the precise dweomer he had envisioned he spoke the words clearly and confidently, his voice resonating throughout the Emerald Atrium like thunder splitting the sky –

The wave of raw magic that Illis had summoned glanced off the shimmering shield as light refracts harmlessly off a reflective surface; Voltain stood unharmed behind it, and didn't even feel the impact of the spell when it struck. He spoke the final syllable of his own incantation and the magical wave rebounded back at the caster from which it originated, engulfing the High Lord Planner in roaring iridescent flames and twisting his slender body in unnatural ways as he writhed helplessly within its depths; from very far away, it seemed, he could hear the faint sound of Furyma screaming…

"Enough," said Voltain softly, and in response to his voice the flames dissipated and dropped the limp form of Illis Khendarhine to the ground, where he moaned incoherently and lay quite still. "I do not wish to fight you – we are kinsmen, after all, and though I do not agree with your motives that does not mean I do not respect you." He looked then to Ebrul Naramixna, who had watched the proceedings most unconcernedly, and added, "Where is the Third _Imaskarcana_? I believe I have proven that I deserve to wield it."

The Lord Apprehender shook his head, the luminescent cobalt tattoos inscribed upon his scalp blurring as he did so. "The High Lord Planner has neglected to share its location with us." He moved to stand over Illis and nudged him gently with the toe of his boot, asking, "Where are you keeping it? Voltain is right, Illis – you are no longer fit to protect the Third _Imaskarcana_. Give it to him. There can be no doubt that he is more worthy of it than you."

Illis raised his head, his dark eyes flashing mutinously, and grunted out, "I will never surrender the Third _Imaskarcana_ to you."

Ebrul's answering facial expression was murderous, and he seemed to be considering a physical retaliation when Voltain raised a hand to stop him. "Leave him be for now, Lord Apprehender, I beg of you. Through further study of the Fifth _Imaskarcana_ I am certain that I will be able to pinpoint its location before long, and there will be no reason to humiliate the High Lord Planner any more than we already have." He snapped the ponderous tome shut with a single flick of his wrist and tucked it beneath his arm again, whereupon he seemed to briefly consider how best to proceed before adding almost as an afterthought, "I am hereby appointing myself Lord Artificer – the people need someone to speak with their voice and act with their best interests at heart, and I am not afraid to be that man. Tomorrow I will appear before the people of Deep Imaskar and announce my new title, as well as what I plan to accomplish on their behalf – my Lord Apprehender, I humbly ask that you make the arrangements."

"I will see to it," Ebrul promised broodingly, still glaring down at Illis Khendarhine with disdain.

"I thank you." Voltain shifted his attention to Furyma Selovan, who had all but collapsed back into her chair and was clutching her chest in fright, her wide eyes roving his face as though scouring it for answers; with effort Voltain was able to soften his face into an expression he was certain she would find both appealing and intriguing, and in a gentle voice he beseeched her, "Lady Enactor, there is little I would ask of you now – I understand that these events have frightened you, but I give you my word that I do not intend to excite our people to civil war. All I ask is that you support my endeavors in the days to come – it is my greatest wish that we might come to some sort of amicable agreement."

The idea of playing Furyma's affections for his benefit was far from ideal, but he was rewarded in the next moment when she said, "You can rest assured, Lord Artificer – if I am able to locate the Third _Imaskarcana_, I will deliver it to you without delay."

Voltain nodded his appreciation before casting one last pitying glance down at the High Lord Planner, who had yet to even lift himself up into a sitting position; for a moment he was compelled to help the other man up, but he resisted in the end. If he was going to act as Lord Artificer he needed to exude an aura of unshakeable strength, and he could no longer tolerate the inherent weakness of others. "Were I you, Illis, I would reconsider my loyalties very carefully in the near future. I intend to charter a course for us that will one day lead back to the surface world where we belong; we may not see that day in our lifetime, but surely you don't want the fact that you opposed this great change to be your legacy, do you?"

Illis Khendarhine let his defiant glare serve as his only response, but Voltain didn't allow himself to feel put off by this. Despite his unexpected assault, Illis was a man of high rationality – before long he would undoubtedly come to see how rash and impulsive his actions had been, and when he did he was sure to turn over the Third _Imaskarcana_ most willingly. Until then Voltain had little choice but to continue to cultivate good working relationships with both Ebrul and Furyma; separately they didn't have the authority to oppose the High Lord Planner, but together they could see to it that each and every one of his decrees was made null and void until they felt assured of his complete cooperation. Both of them had already agreed to support Voltain's claim to the title of Lord Artificer, and with their continued assistance his claim would become something much more – it would become reality, and he would be named the undisputed leader of the Deep Imaskari race. To his knowledge there hadn't been a Lord Artificer since the days of Lord Ilphemon and his retinue – to Voltain, who was rumored to share Ilphemon's bloodline, this seemed fitting somehow.

"I will expect you to be in attendance when I address the people tomorrow, Lord Khendarhine," Voltain warned, and turning he excused himself from the Emerald Atrium.

He made certain to revive his petrified kinsman on his way out of the Silver Hall. He was a man of his word.

Voltain Darkydle considered himself an even-tempered and likeable man – even despite his very recent disagreement with Illis Khendarhine – but he couldn't help feeling disgruntled when he returned to his private lodgings to find that Illyria had let herself in again. How she repeatedly managed to bypass the nigh-impenetrable security offered by the Great Seal's magical defenses he had yet to determine, but he silently swore to himself that if he ever found out he would go to great lengths to deny her access.

She was seated on the windowsill and looking down on the magnificent view of the city when he arrived, her little feet in their white stiletto heels swinging in her state of perpetual amusement, and he had to battle back the urge to push her out the window – then again, she would have recovered easily. With her luxurious black gloaming's wings, she would simply have flown back up to his apartment and alighted upon the windowsill with a shriek and one of those tinny little laughs of hers that made him grind his teeth. He glared disapprovingly at her gracefully folded wings and briefly entertained the mental image of using his newfound prowess of the arcane to burn them off her back, running a hand through his severely straight black hair and exhaling softly in frustration. As pleasing as the notion was, it would be better to let her make her report – the sooner she finished updating him, the sooner he could be rid of her and find some peace. "What do you want, Illyria?"

"Y'know, before I killed my daddy, he used to tell this stupid story about the faerzress." Her voice was high and lilting, a simpering, sugary-sweet sound that made his skin crawl; she turned to face him, her too-large eyes twin sapphires of over-exaggerated innocence in her youthful face and her cherubic features darkened with skepticism. "He said it's what the faeries leave behind when they die. How many faeries did you and your sorcerer friends kill just so you could live in this ugly cave?"

"That's only a foolish myth," he told her wearily, suddenly feeling as though he hadn't slept in years. How could someone so young and lovely and vivacious be so supremely annoying?

Illyria tilted her head to one side and wrapped a lock of her auburn hair around one little index finger, twirling it into a curl before releasing it and letting it bounce off her narrow shoulder. She had a habit of doing that when she was pretending to play dense about something, and it never failed to grate on Voltain's nerves. "So you didn't kill anybody? It was just empty when you got here?"

He stood in the center of the room with the Fifth _Imaskarcana_ still tucked in close to his right side, unwilling to allow himself to relax in her presence. In truth he longed to shed his boots and greatcoat and lay the tome aside for a moment or two, for he had been carrying it around for hours and it had a way of weighing upon his soul as well as his muscles, but the only place he felt it would be safe in Illyria's presence was in his arms. He had seen the way she looked at that ancient text penned by his brilliant ancestors – with a hungry kind of longing that made him feel distinctly uneasy. He had no doubt that if he left it unattended for even a moment she would steal it and flee the city, and he had a feeling that if that particular set of circumstances ever came to pass that he would find it nearly impossible to track her down again. "We killed monsters," he corrected her irritably, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. "Goblins, svirfneblin, slyth, duergar, even fiends according to Lord Ilphemon's journals. We killed whatever we had to kill in order to survive."

"Then how do you know you didn't kill any faeries?" she pointed out, jutting her lower lip out in a pout; the lurid pink lipstick she wore had been sloppily applied, yet another aspect of her appearance that wore down his last remaining nerve. "You weren't even there, were you?"

"Of course I wasn't," Voltain snapped impatiently. "That was centuries ago, before even my grandparents were born. Why are you here? If anyone ever sees you – "

"Relax," she whined, shrugging off the windowsill and fluttering into his apartment comfortably as though she thought herself a welcome guest; her too-tall heels clacked noisily upon the slate-grey stone underfoot, loud in the relative peacefulness that characterized the whole of the Garnet Quarter. "Nobody ever sees me. Everybody's got their nose in some spellbook around here, it's a wonder they get anywhere without tripping over their own feet!" She giggled girlishly at her own childish jibe, prompting Voltain to shudder with disgust and turn his back on her; though he passed through the sitting room to his private chambers she insisted on following along in his wake, perfectly at ease, stretching her arms up over her head and letting out a childlike yawn. The Fifth _Imaskarcana_ felt like a tombstone under his arm – oh how he longed to put it down! "So, Lord Artificer? Y'know, I knew you were gonna say that like, _two whole weeks ago_. What took you so long? How did Khendar-whatsit take the bad news? Did he give you that other super boring book that nobody ever reads?"

Contradicting her was pointless so he didn't even bother; bandy words with the immature Illyria and you would go mad before you got your point across, but present her with enough factual data and she would eventually get bored and abandon her foolish games. "_Lord Khendarhine_," he corrected purely on impulse, "refused to turn over the Third _Imaskarcana_ to me, and his advisors have no knowledge of where it is kept – "

"That you know of," Illyria interrupted unashamedly, ruffling her wings in irritation. "_Honestly_. You don't seriously still think you can trust that guy Ebrul, do you? He's a bad, bad man, Volt, and the first chance he gets he's gonna ditch you and steal your dusty old book for himself."

The thought instilled within him such rage that he overlooked the use of the obnoxious moniker Illyria had taken to calling him by, tightening his grip on the ancient volume he held and growling, "He is welcome to try, but he has no hope of succeeding against me. Lord Khendarhine has surely studied the Third _Imaskarcana_ at least to some degree – it has been in his possession for nearly six decades, after all – and he was no match for me today. Ebrul has never so much as laid eyes upon even a single page – he has no hope of standing against me. His only option is to pledge his allegiance to me for now."

"Whatever," scoffed the blue-eyed gloaming, and hopping up onto his meticulously-made bed she folded her arms over her petite bosom and crossed her feet at the ankle, fixing him with a stare that suggested she was already bored with their conversation. "Just don't depend on him too much. He's bad news. I've seen some of the stuff he does to you later on and it's _not_ pretty… Good thing you can take care of yourself, or I might be a teensy bit worried."

Briefly Voltain considered asking her to elaborate on that, but he thought better of it in the end for the sake of his own sanity. Illyria was a fatespinner, one of a truly uncommon few who possessed the ability to influence fate in their favor – or the favor of those they chose, which was one of the only reasons he continued to abide her presence. Oftentimes the events that had already been "decided", as she preferred to call them, required only a brief and concise explanation for him to understand, but still others were not so certain – these he was careful to avoid asking for clarification on, for Illyria would launch into every single possible outcome with painstaking detail and waste hours of his time with her own pointless conjectures. Most of the time Illyria could be counted on to divulge the details of "decided" events without any further prompting from him, and he knew well enough when not to pry. Privately he vowed to be more careful around Ebrul Naramixna in the days to come.

"Don't worry about your little pep rally tomorrow," Illyria added, fanning the air with one silken-gloved hand as though to assuage some worry he didn't know he had. "Everybody will love you, I've already decided. Good thing too – you're gonna be pretty busy from here on out, and you'll need the support of your adoring fans to do all the stuff you're gonna promise them you'll do."

She was baiting him into asking for her insight, Voltain knew, but still he resisted the intrigue. If he gave into her cryptic babble now he would find little rest this night, and he needed to be at his best when he addressed the public tomorrow. Lord Artificer! He could scarcely believe the bold stride he had taken, and hoped Illyria was right in saying his declaration would be well received. "Illyria," he bade her, the hint of a plea in his voice as he ran one hand down his face, "please tell me why you've come. You must have something to share, and I confess – I am fatigued from my studies as well as from my confrontation with the High Lord Planner. If you insist on assailing me with these vague clues of yours, I must ask you to leave."

"Oh, _fine_," she sighed, twining a strand of her hair around her finger double-time – a sure sign that she was resigned to do things his way for the moment. "You're always ruining my fun, I don't even know why I bother…" She threw one last pout his way but Voltain didn't even bat an eye, so she heaved a sigh and delved to the heart of the matter. "Remember that other dumb book that you don't have anymore? Y'know, the one that those drow snatched right out from under your nose before they ran out of here?"

"Keep your voice down!" Voltain hissed, unable to hide the wince that her pointed observations incited to cloud his expression, and Illyria veritably glowed with pride at the obvious success of her jibe. It was true – the Sixth _Imaskarcana_ had been in his possession for a short time, but the pair of drow he and his fellow artificers had apprehended near the excavation site two lunar cycles ago had somehow stolen it from him before vanishing into the wilds of the Underdark. To this day he had no explanation for how they had managed to escape his clutches – he had been so _careful_! – but they had taken with them the Sixth _Imaskarcana_ and so far he had failed to track them down. Worst of all, Lord Khendarhine and his retainers hadn't the faintest idea that the text was no longer in his keeping – no one did, save for the infuriating little gloaming making herself at home upon his handsomely-stitched quilt. That was how he had fallen in with her in the first place – one minute he had been cursing his lack of foresight and the next minute she had shown up at his side, completely uninvited with extensive knowledge of his single greatest failure at her disposal. Voltain still didn't know what Illyria was after or why she bothered with him at all, but he knew one thing for certain – if she ever grew tired of him, or decided that the companionship of Lord Khendarhine suited her far better, all she need do was breathe a word of his disgrace. That was all it would take to ruin him.

Illyria beamed at him; it was clear in her too-bright smile that she took thorough enjoyment in his panic, and had certainly been hoping to wring such a reaction from him. "You remember though, right?"

He turned his back on her yet again, veritably trembling with anger at her audacity. Did she not understand that he would lose all credibility if knowledge of his failure reached the wrong ears? Did she care for nothing but her foolish child's games? "Get out, Illyria. I have quite enough on my mind without worrying over how I will ever recover that which I've lost." Voltain meant to leave that as his parting remark and simply vacate his private lodgings – surely there was somewhere else he could go to escape the saccharine-sweet gloaming's constant badgering? – but her next words stopped him in his tracks before he could even exit the room.

"I found it."

Voltain nearly dropped the book he held, so complete was his surprise; when he whirled back to confront her for her audacious declaration it was to find her sitting cross-legged in the center of his bed, her chin propped on one little fist, all traces of her previous juvenile mirth gone. There was a dark smile of utmost superiority playing at the corners of her mouth that boiled his blood with rage – he so longed to be rid of her, but begrudgingly reminded himself that this simply wasn't a feasible option. Illyria knew too much and had the potential to be of overwhelming value to him – or to anyone else she chose, for that matter – and it was because of the fact that she dealt fate's hand that he felt compelled to keep the peace between them. Much as he detested admitting as much, he needed her – her far-seeing gaze and her uncanny ability to influence events in his favor were two things that he was reluctant to give up now.

"You found it?" he echoed at last, his voice dubious. How could she possibly have managed to track down the stolen tome he had spent the past two lunar cycles exhausting his own personal resources to locate? "You found the Sixth _Imaskarcana_? The one the drow stole from me?"

"Yeah, yeah, that one." Illyria tapped her fingernails against her too-white teeth, feigning boredom. "I mean, don't get too excited, it's not like I brought it with me or anything… But yeah, I know where it is."

"Where is it?" Was it still somewhere in the Underdark, within his reach? Even if the drow had taken it back to one of their matriarchal cities, Menzoberranzan or even Ched Nasad, Voltain felt confident that he could recover it with careful planning… and a little intervention from fate's winged minion, of course.

Illyria smirked in a way that made Voltain uneasy. "You're not gonna like it."

"Whether or not I like what you are about to tell me is irrelevant," Voltain pointed out diplomatically. Illyria was too simple-minded to understand his obsession with locating the other volumes of the fabled _Imaskarcana_; she segregated the events of her life into two categories – things she enjoyed and things she didn't – and he had long suspected her of lending him her aid simply because she found his predicament amusing. There was little hope she would understand his determination if he admitted he was willing to do whatever was necessary in order to recover what had been stolen from him. "I need to know where it is. Those volumes belong to the descendants of the old Imaskar Empire, and no one else."

"Ugh, you're so serious all the time," sighed the petite gloaming, picking at a stray thread that was unraveling at the hem of her asymmetrical, translucent white dress. "You take all the fun out of everything! Fine, I guess, if you wanna know so bad… the Princes of Shade have it."

At first, this revelation meant very little to Voltain – the term dimly sparked something in his memory, but not enough to incite him to any particular emotional response. "The Princes of Shade have it."

Illyria rolled her eyes again and threw her hands in the air, obviously disappointed that he hadn't instantly flown into a vengeful rage. "Oh, come on! The Princes of Shade?! The shadow masters of Thultanthar?! _Everybody_ knows who they are – I swear, you've been stuck down here too long, Volt. They're like, descended from some other wizarding society that used to be a big deal. Nether-something."

"The Netherese Imperium?" Voltain clarified, running a hand through his hair yet again.

"That's the one!" crowed Illyria, clapping her hands together in an overdone show of congratulations, and this time Voltain actually did put the Fifth _Imaskarcana _down upon his meticulously-organized study desk. He simply couldn't trust himself to support its weight any longer, not now that he knew just what he was dealing with.

Later Imaskari history chronicled the rise of the Netherese Imperium, a separate sect of the human race comprised primarily of mortals of above-average arcane strength. Their empire was said to begin with the enclave of Xinlenal which had been created by the Netherese archwizard Ioulaum, the first of their kind to successfully harness the power of the mythallars and enable their cities to take to the air. The Imaskari wizard-kings had witnessed little else of the rise and fall of Netheril, but Lord Ilphemon's ilk had been diligent historians and made it their duty to pen not only the founding of Deep Imaskar, but the key events of every other civilization in Faerun; thanks to their thorough record-keeping, Voltain knew of the events that had brought about the fall of the Netherese Imperium. Magical residue from the floating cities poisoned the race known as the phaerimm, subterranean abominations who fed upon the excess magic and rose from their lightless tunnel homes in retaliation; the phaerimm had cast spells with the sole purpose of draining the energy and vitality from the floating enclaves, and the Netherese had fled their homes in a panic. One aspiring archwizard called Karsus had then responded in desperation, casting a powerful experimental spell that linked him with the old goddess Mystryl; her divine strength had proven too much for the young Karsus, however, and the resulting swell of arcane power had caused the Weave to rupture. Mystryl managed to sever the connection between herself and Karsus before the sudden influx of magic could destroy all of Faerun, but the resulting arcane aftershocks had caused the mythallars to malfunction; as a result each and every one of the floating cities of Netheril had plummeted for the ground, killing thousands and leaving the survivors easy prey for the vengeful phaerimm.

All except for one.

The archwizards of Thultanthar had been experimenting with interplanar shifts in the weeks leading up to the fall of Netheril, and just before Karsus's disastrous joining with Mystryl had managed to phase their entire city into the mysterious Realm of Shadow. They had remained there for several weeks, studying the planar makeup of their unfamiliar surroundings and determining if they might harness that energy into potent spellcasting before returning to the Material Plane, to find that the rest of their kind had become extinct in their absence. Their illustrious leader, known only as Lord Shadow, had vowed to avenge the fallen Netherese archwizards before returning Thultanthar to the Shadowfell, where a set of unforeseen circumstances had unfolded that kept the city suspended in shadow for seventeen centuries. Voltain knew that Thultanthar had returned to the skies above Anauroch, the once-fertile lands that the phaerimm had reduced to a barren desert wasteland in their lust for retribution, in recent years, but he had never dreamed that one of the volumes of the _Imaskarcana_ might somehow land in their midst. Compared to the wizard-kings of old Imaskar the shadow masters of Thultanthar were hardly a threat, but if they somehow learned to wield the _Imaskarcana_…

"How did this happen?" Voltain demanded, his voice grave. Truly, this was a dark day for Imaskar.

Illyria shrugged, hardly concerned. "One of those drow that escaped had a buddy up in Thultanthar, I guess – he was gonna take that sword to him, but you stole it, so they stole your book. Funny – if you had just let them keep their stupid sword, you'd probably still have it!"

Voltain's jaw tensed with irritation; it was clear in his expression that he did not appreciate the irony. "And how do you know all these things, Illyria?"

"I know people," she answered vaguely, and hopping lightly down from his bed she made a show of stretching as she wandered past him. "Don't worry, you'll figure out a way to get it back; I've already seen a few of your better ideas, and they have potential. In the meantime, get some rest for tomorrow. Your speech is short and sweet, but people like it and they'll be patting you on the back all day."

Briefly Voltain wondered how much of his speech the people would actually enjoy and how much of their enjoyment was influenced by Illyria and her twisted magic, but he held his tongue and watched her go. He was curious, but not enough to ask.

The next day he appeared before the people of Deep Imaskar and announced his new position as Lord Artificer, as well as his plans to reclaim the lands that had once belonged to their ancestors and lead them on a mass exodus back to the surface world.

And they loved him, just as Illyria had promised they would.


	2. Chapter Two - Given and Denied

The Princes of Shade didn't wear black to funerals.

The public mourning had been the previous day; commoners, artisans, merchants, soldiers, priests, arcanists, and lesser nobles had flooded into the Church of Shar to pay their respects, to say their goodbyes, to leave flowers and other tokens of their adoration, and to grieve for the life that had been so abruptly stolen. Today the sanctuary was off-limits to the common folk and the Shadow Court had declared a day of rest; today there would be no council meetings, no petty squabbles and no attempts to undermine one another. Today they formed a united front, for the loss belonged to all of them.

It was almost eerily silent within the congregation, as though the absence of that life had drained the vitality from each of them. The cloyingly sweet aroma of flowers clung to the inside of Twelfth Prince Brennus's nostrils, making his extremities feel unnaturally sluggish and clouding his thoughts, for the scent of night-blooming jasmine was heavy in the air and this did not incite within him feelings of loss or sorrow. He was holding one of the delicate white buds in the palm of his hand and brushing the soft petals with the tips of his fingers and remembering a much simpler, much happier time when he had been so deeply in love that little else in life had mattered. He was reminiscing over how lovelorn he had been and reliving his own heartbreak and expounding upon his own guilt with each passing second, because he was supposed to be mourning the death of the shadow sorcerer Hadrhune but instead he seemed to be grieving the death of his own heart.

His brother Rivalen was speaking now in a low, monotonous cadence as he recited last rites from the Book of Shar and for this Brennus was almost desperately grateful; the silence the incantation filled had been somehow deafening, and he hadn't noticed the roaring in his ears until it had been replaced by something else. He struggled to focus on the gentle, almost introspective timbre of the Second Prince's voice and use it to ground his own thoughts in the matter at hand, but try as he might he couldn't keep either his thoughts or his eyes from roaming.

The High Prince had chosen his new daughter-in-law Soleil to bear the sacred candle that burned with the jet black flame while Rivalen read the last rites, and bitterly Brennus wished with all his might that his patron had been sensitive enough to the emotional instability of mortals to know that this decision was not sound. To say that the recently-crowned Princess of Shade was not handling her current charge very gracefully was a horrible understatement – Soleil was the very embodiment of despair. If guilt had a face, it would surely be her own; if regret was a river it ran solely on the flow of her tears. It was a wonder, Brennus marveled, that she had managed to keep the candle lit at all in her hysterics – he suspected that his eldest brother Escanor, a silent sentinel wearing a carefully neutral expression at his new bride's side, had taken the candle from her once or twice so that she could mop up her face. It wasn't that anyone blamed the mountebank for Hadrhune's death – Brennus didn't think any among their current number had the capacity to be quite that cruel – but the seneschal had been wearing a Torc of Heroic Sacrifice when he had been found, his fingers curled around the cursed sacrificial stone. Soleil had been meant to die – there was no denying that she had been the clear target of a cold-blooded assassin, and Hadrhune had used the Torc's magic to take the wounds inflicted upon her as his own. Brennus couldn't even begin to imagine the depth of the guilt Soleil must be feeling – the fault wasn't hers, of course, but one had only to glimpse the misery in the mountebank's face to know that she blamed herself.

Brennus dared to cut his gaze inconspicuously across the altar toward the Sceptrana of Thultanthar, who he remembered had originally invited herself into their midst because of an infatuation that she had once harbored for the deceased. Aveil Arthien had the blood of snow elf kings flowing through her veins, which made her heart quite formidable and her will normally unshakeable, but even now he could see signs of that imperviousness beginning to wear down. There was a redness lingering around her eyes that suggested she was battling back tears, and her gaze was vacant, wide, and unblinking. It was as though she was holding her breath for fear that to do otherwise would be to invite sorrow in. Her struggle to remain composed prompted Brennus to shift his gaze to his brother Aglarel, Fourth Prince in the hierarchy of the Tanthul family and indisputably the Sceptrana's closest companion of late; he appeared to be staring unblinkingly at the altar in the center of their congregation wearing an expression that seemed even stonier than usual, and Brennus couldn't help but wonder if Aveil's obvious distress was the cause of it.

Rivalen's somber cadence served to make Brennus introspective, and it was then that he at last turned his unwilling gaze upon the Mind of the Most High, Phendrana.

The notion that if Phendrana had never become an object of utmost curiosity to their sovereign and master, High Prince Telamont, Brennus might never have fallen out of the Most High's favor had not once sincerely inhabited the Twelfth Prince, despite his lamentations that his reputation now seemed to be irredeemable – no, once not long ago Brennus had been in the possession of something that he considered far more precious than the grace of their sovereign's bounty. Even knowing that loving Phendrana had cost him the Most High's favor didn't incite within Brennus even a trace of resentment, and dire though his circumstances seemed he couldn't bring himself to regret the choices that had brought him such disgrace. For the first time in his life he had _loved_ – really loved, given his heart and mind completely, pursued the happiness of another without a thought for what he might gain in return, and prior to meeting Phendrana such a concept had been altogether foreign to Brennus. He was young despite his centuries of life, the youngest of the Princes of Shade and perhaps even the most naïve and impressionable, and had chased after love with his characteristic reckless abandon. Was there any other way to aptly pursue something so undeniably valued?

That reckless abandon had driven him to nullify the centuries-old tradition upon which the Empire of Shade had been founded; while Phendrana had lay dying Brennus had torn a fragment of his own shadow orb, the life organ that sustained the creatures of darkness, and used it to save the doppelganger's life. The shadow had lifted Phendrana above the mortal coil and transformed him into a shade – a being that entertained a great many luxuries as a pseudo-immortal – but it was not without complications that Phendrana had cheated death that day; he had been suffering the side-effects of that transformation ever since, the consequences of which Brennus had been secretly battling despite his sovereign's strict edict not to interfere with Phendrana in any way, shape, or form. Whether the hardships Phendrana was now subject to were a direct result of his transformation at Brennus' hand or a tragic outcome of the mortal wounds that had nearly claimed his life no one had yet determined – indeed they were the subject of much debate amongst the Princes of Shade, who for the most part had steadfastly united against Brennus in the wake of the ritual he had abolished.

Only two upon the Shadow Council were brave enough to abide his presence. Brave, or foolish – Brennus had yet to determine which.

In an effort to keep Phendrana from feeling altogether isolated in the world that was still mostly foreign to him the High Prince had placed one of Brennus' brothers in the doppelganger's path – Third Prince Lamorak, the soft-spoken sage who served as the leader of the enigmatic Determinist's Guild. Admittedly at first Brennus had been somewhat relieved to find that Lamorak had been placed in charge of Phendrana's care, for though he was mostly lacking in empathy he was well-attuned to the ways of the mind and would undoubtedly toil endlessly to mend the damage that the premature transformation had wrecked upon Phendrana's already-fractured consciousness – now, however, Brennus was no longer certain that he enjoyed that notion at all. He had counted on Lamorak's characteristic emotional detachment and Phendrana's obvious reluctance to place trust in anyone to keep the pair from forming any sort of companionship, but somehow the exact opposite had occurred; Lamorak had given Phendrana purpose again, the pursuit of which had landed him in their midst in the first place. In exchange, it seemed that spending so much time in Phendrana's presence was having a noticeable effect on Lamorak's outlook on many aspects of his life, not the least of which seemed to be that same emotional distance Brennus had hoped would help maintain something of a professional distance between the two. Already Lamorak was a little more outgoing, a little more willing to share his thoughts and feelings… and now a little too close to Phendrana for Brennus' liking.

Unfortunately in his current position – friendless and without the coveted support of his sovereign – Brennus had no power to supplant his brother from Phendrana's side; he could only keep watch and secretly hope that nothing else developed as a result of their unlikely companionship. Already Lamorak knew too well how Brennus had been whiling away the hours he now spent confined to his private quarters – in pursuit of a way to heal the impurities he was certain he had inflicted upon poor Phendrana's mind, and even that knowledge was enough to condemn him. Having been forbidden to have contact of any kind with Phendrana or even to entertain his interests, Brennus' actions could easily be considered treasonous – one word from Lamorak could spell the end of him. Brennus had little choice now but to keep things between him and his older brother as amicable as possible, in the hopes that in appearing agreeable Lamorak might be compelled to keep his silence.

As insurmountable a task that seemed at times, Brennus much preferred Lamorak's company over that of his other so-called companion.

"If there is a way I might return you to the High Prince's good graces," Lim Tal'eyve had told him not so long ago, "I will see that I do everything within my power to make it so."

That promise, the idea that Brennus might one day be able to secure his place at the High Prince's side once more, had been an irresistible lure for the disgraced Twelfth Prince of Shade; from the moment he had heard the words he had known that he would bind himself to Lim's fate, that he would say or do whatever was necessary to ensure that Lim fulfilled that vow one day.

He supposed Lim had been banking on his blind desperation all along.

_"__What is it?" _he had demanded that first day they had found a handful of moments to converse alone; for Brennus, the time for pleasantries had long passed.

_"__I'm sure I haven't the faintest clue what you mean,"_ Lim had answered cryptically, hardly looking up as he turned a page from some obscure tome that, at the time, Brennus had felt relatively certain the drow-turned-shade had shamelessly stolen from the Grand Library within the Palace Most High. As far as Brennus was concerned, Lim had been stealing things that weren't his since the moment he had weaseled his way into their midst.

Brennus had snarled and slapped the book shut with one hand and been prepared to make the upstart drow's life a living hell when he'd said, _"I know that the assassin brought you something – whatever it is you've been waiting for all this time is now in your possession, and I command you to show it to me. I did not stake what remains of my reputation on your success just so that you could rescind your promise to me."_

_"__Oh yes,"_ Lim had recalled, and he had pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger with a pained look that got Brennus' blood boiling with rage before snatching the book back from beneath Brennus' hand and laying it aside. _"__That. You should have waited for me to summon you, Prince… The situation is quite delicate, and at this time I have nothing to report."_

It had taken all of the loremaster's considerable discipline not to throttle the impertinent drow where he sat. _"I don't understand."_

_"__And I don't expect you to,"_ Lim had confessed, his tone of voice nearly as pained as his expression, and he had gazed up at Brennus then with something that resembled pity in his eyes. That was the first moment Brennus had felt honestly ashamed of himself, had recognized just how far he had fallen - to think that this bottom-feeding traitor _pitied_ him! _"__I can hardly explain it to you, for at this point I am just as much in the dark as you are. What I was waiting for and what I received are not the same, and this changes my plans considerably, as I'm sure you can imagine."_

_"__What is it?"_ Brennus had demanded again, but his voice was uncertain now and there was something about his obvious vulnerability that piqued Lim's interest.

"What was I waiting for? A weapon strong enough to slay a goddess where she lies sleeping within the webs of her dominion, deep in the bowels of the Abyss. What did I receive?" Lim had paused then while his expression grew vacant, and for a fleeting moment Brennus thought he glimpsed the hint of something ancient and fathomless flicker deep within the drow's amber eyes; in the next instant Lim had returned to himself, watching the youngest prince with a hint of disdain and no trace of that ageless wisdom left to suggest that anything was amiss. "A weapon of some sort, of that much I am certain – not the one I was expecting, but perhaps one that is stronger still. I cannot say just yet."

They hadn't interacted since then; Brennus suspected Lim was waiting for him to voice further inquiries on the subject, but Brennus was determined not to play into the drow's hands again. Lim knew that he was desperate – best not to allow him to play on that desperation to his own benefit.

Brennus glanced Phendrana's way again and involuntarily flinched when their eyes met – how long had the doppelganger been watching him? Was he even now trying to communicate telepathically, as he was so accustomed? Was he unable to speak his mind with Brennus so obviously distracted? Though he was mindful of the dire consequences he would undoubtedly face if the High Prince caught wind of them speaking, however briefly, Brennus opened his consciousness to receive Phendrana's voice. What if he had something important to say? What if it could benefit his situation, alleviate even a fraction of the hardship Brennus was suffering?

That was the first time the Twelfth Prince glimpsed the doppelganger's mind and was terrified by what he saw there.

Phendrana's mind was a desolate place, a fathomless void blanketed by never-ending darkness; though he was a creature born and sustained within shadow Brennus found this manner of deep darkness almost suffocating, for even a single glance filled him with a crushing, all-consuming despair. For a moment he thought he could see his beloved doppelganger standing within a break in those curtains of impenetrable shadow, but the glimpse was fleeting; in the next instant a second figure appeared wreathed in a veil of shadows so deep that he appeared almost formless, and then Phendrana was swallowed up within the thick black fog.

_"__Help me,"_ the doppelganger's voice sobbed, barely more than a whisper, and then his voice was lost beneath the sudden keening of a second voice, shrieking, howling in unexplainable agony –

The bolt of terror that coursed down Brennus' spine was such that he shook himself back to the present, just as Second Prince Rivalen spoke the final phrase of the last rites in the ponderous tongue of the Netherese and reverently closed the Book of Shar in one hand. At a soft prompting from her new husband Soleil lifted the candle, dragged a shuddering breath into her lungs, and blew raggedly through her pursed lips until the single tongue of black flame was extinguished.

"The Dark Lady welcomes you," Rivalen concluded, and with one hand laid respectfully upon the ornate amulet that hung heavy around his neck he bowed as the altar around which they had all gathered burst into jet-black flames. They all copied him then, repeating that simple mantra beneath bated breath, until Rivalen straightened and spoke the final words of the rite that would set them all into motion. "May the Night Mother keep you until we have avenged you."

"Until then," the rest of them promised solemnly, and standing up straight they surrendered their grief as one and welcomed other emotions in its place; with their eyes fixed upon the chaotically dancing black flame they allowed hatred and anger and retribution to flood their senses, to seize their hearts and corrupt their minds, for in those black emotions they embraced a simple truth. No shade had ever died of old age; High Prince Telamont, the oldest among them and the founder of their great empire, was more than three millennia of age and only grew more venerable with each passing day. A shade did not expire naturally – he could only be killed, as Hadrhune had been.

For this reason, the Princes of Shade didn't wear black to funerals – they wore red, the color of vengeance.

Brennus made with all haste for the Shadow Realm the moment he had exited the inner chapel of the Church of Shar, for Lim Tal'eyve seemed to be trying to catch his eye and Lamorak was hailing Phendrana. Ultimately he was grateful that Lamorak didn't look his way as he departed, for he hadn't the faintest idea what expression his face held and knew that he couldn't afford to appear even the slightest bit interested in Phendrana's social life.

The Determinist Prime caught up with Phendrana upon the topmost stair of the chapel courtyard, distressed to find the doppelganger's gaze as vacant as though his mind had simply detached from his body. "My friend!" he called in an overly-enthusiastic tone, hoping that the display of jubilation would chase the emptiness from the mindmaster's face and replace it with something more favorable, but he hoped in vain – Phendrana turned to regard him readily enough, but with an empty gaze that left Lamorak feeling oddly hollow. "You are well? We have not spoken in days."

This much was true; prior to Escanor and Soleil's wedding and the catastrophe that had overshadowed the reception Lamorak had entertained Phendrana's trust and companionship more so than perhaps anyone else in Thultanthar. Through their partnership they had foiled a series of assassination attempts, all of which would have claimed the life of an irreplaceable member of the Shadow Court had they come to fruition, and together they had repaired much of the mental trauma Phendrana had suffered in the wake of his premature transformation. It was not off the mark to suggest that Lamorak had come to value the doppelganger's friendship, something that his reclusive and overly-analytical nature typically did not enjoy, and until very recently he had felt certain that Phendrana had come to depend upon him as well.

He supposed it was quite wrong of him to begrudge Phendrana's recent decision to distance himself. Phendrana had been the first person to come across Hadrhune as he lay dying, and Lamorak had heard it told that the seneschal had died in Phendrana's arms. It was something of an unfortunate curse that followed Phendrana around like a lingering stench in the air – death clung to him like the last leaf to a withering tree, as evidenced by the six separate personas that had once been a part of the doppelganger's mind. All six of those deceased heroes had met a fate similar to Hadrhune's, and like Hadrhune the light of life had dimmed in their eyes while a helpless Phendrana could only watch.

It made Lamorak wonder, and not for the first time – was there a limit to how much death a man could witness before it drove him insane?

Dimly the Third Prince realized that all the while he had been brooding Phendrana hadn't said a single word either in welcome or in response to his inquiry; it prompted Lamorak to pry. "How have you been passing the time? You are still hard at work honing your mind, I hope."

Phendrana continued to stare at him blankly, his slightly-unfocused gaze suggesting that he wasn't wholly focused on the man standing before him; the eerie sensation that the doppelganger was staring straight through him left Lamorak feeling distinctly unnerved. He opened his mouth hotly, abruptly incensed at the mindmaster's lack of attention, but before he could demand an explanation Phendrana managed to choke out a single "yes" in reply. Oddly this left Lamorak with more questions than he had had before, though privately he admitted that the tone of that single syllable had completely derailed his train of thought – the desolation in Phendrana's voice was perhaps even bleaker than the emptiness behind his wide silver eyes.

He opted for truth this time, after a swift glance to either side to ensure that their conversation wasn't in danger of being intruded upon – Phendrana, he knew, had little use for idle pleasantries but responded quite favorably to unfiltered honesty. "I confess, I have worried about you from time to time," Lamorak admitted, hoping the sincerity of his words rang through in his voice. "It isn't in your nature to shut yourself away. I hope that when you are ready to speak of whatever it is that ails you that you will seek me out… You know that I will do anything in my power to help you."

A casual onlooker would have noted absolutely no change in Phendrana's expression, but Lamorak knew the doppelganger well and did not miss the flicker of emotion that flared to life deep in the depths of his eyes in response to these words. For a moment it was really Phendrana standing there and not the hollow, lifeless shell of a man that had been haunting the halls of the Palace Most High those past weeks, and in that moment Lamorak caught a glimpse of what the doppelganger was truly feeling.

Not just fear, but panic-stricken terror. Not mere helplessness, but the kind of crushing desolation that could drive a man to the point of total surrender. He wasn't treading lightly through despair, he was drowning in an endless sea of all-consuming misery. He was the very embodiment of anguish.

And then he winced and caved in upon himself at no verbal prompting that the Third Prince was privy to; quicker than Lamorak could blink the emptiness crept back into Phendrana's eyes and he nodded once, the picture of unthinking compliance. "I will," he agreed monotonously, and then he put the Determinist Prime at his back and descended the concrete courtyard steps as though he had some formless demon nipping at his heels.

Lamorak watched him go without another word, his thoughts in a jumble and his stomach in knots, and wondered.

The next day council was back in session, but it was immediately apparent that not all of them were meant to be privy to the High Prince's will. Fifth Prince Clariburnus, Master-at-Arms of the Hall of the Arts Martial and Supreme Commander of the Army of Shade, arrived in the council chamber to find only his eldest brother Escanor seated in his customary position to the right of the table's head – the seat reserved for their sovereign and father, High Prince Telamont. Clariburnus stood in the doorway for a moment, at a loss for words – surely he wasn't late reporting for duty? "Has the Most High come and gone?" he asked at length, fearing the answer, but Escanor sat up a little straighter and offered him a harried sort of smile.

"He will be along shortly," the First Prince assured him, "and were I you I would accept whatever charge he offers you graciously and without question. I shouldn't have to tell you that there is much now that must be done in the wake of Hadrhune's death, and the Most High is thinking only of that at present."

Clariburnus passed through the door and let it close gently behind him, circling the table to stand beside his chair but hesitating to take his seat. There was something in Escanor's tone that made him reluctant to relax, something that suggested soon they would have cause to be anything but idle. For Clariburnus, a man whose single greatest passion in life was the advancement of the Empire of Shade through means of conquest, even the possibility of battle was enough to get his blood racing. Escanor recognized the anxious excitement as it crept into his brother's posture and his smile broadened, pleased by such obvious enthusiasm.

The smile was wiped from his face the moment that Clariburnus, in an attempt to strike up an amicable conversation to pass the time until the council convened, asked cordially, "How is married life treating you, brother? Is wedded bliss everything you hoped it would be?"

Escanor sank an inch or two lower in his chair and brooded over those words for a moment, ignoring the expression of puzzlement that clouded Clariburnus' expression as the silence between them continued unfilled. It wasn't that he regretted his decision to take a bride, or even that his love for Soleil had dulled in the short period of time that they had been husband and wife – quite the contrary he felt as devoted to her now as he always had, if not more so – it was simply that despite the short time that had passed since their union their marriage already seemed fraught with strife.

The First Princess of Thultanthar was a mountebank, one who had sold her soul to a higher power – the ritual involved had left her sworn to the service of High Prince Telamont for as long as she lived, but in exchange she had been gifted with a number of useful and astounding powers. One of these abilities in particular had served the Princes of Shade quite well over the years; the empathetic link that Soleil now possessed allowed her to sense when the High Prince, his sons, and his closest and most trusted advisors were in grave danger. This skill, coupled with an ensorcelled ring that allowed Soleil to travel through miniscule tears between dimensions with a single thought, enabled her to interfere at critical moments when time was of the essence. She had intervened on Escanor's behalf in a handful of occasions since she had entered the Most High's service, and he was willing to admit that her actions had saved his life several times.

It was no wonder, knowing that, she considered Hadrhune's death a personal failure on her part.

"You can hardly blame yourself for this tragedy," Escanor had insisted over and over again, struggling to make his voice heard over the awful din of Soleil's ragged, breathless sobs. "The drow meant to kill you – he would have done, if Hadrhune hadn't acted accordingly. He _chose_ to save you, Soleil. In that moment, preserving your life was Hadrhune's only wish – being so willing to make such a noble sacrifice, I cannot imagine that he regretted that decision in the end."

"It is my purpose to lay down my life for those dearest to the Most High," she had argued tearfully, "and not the other way around."

And Escanor, faced with such indisputable logic, had been unable to think of a single word to refute this.

"I am happy," he said at last, hoping that his conviction was apparent in his tone of voice – Clariburnus, who had been waiting intently for his reply for quite some time, was beginning to look genuinely concerned. "But I would be happier if she was. This business with Hadrhune is a dark affair indeed, none of us can argue that – but for Soleil it is far more than an unfortunate loss. For Soleil this is something of a private disappointment, a mark upon her name – she blames herself for his death, and is further distressed by the High Prince's absolute refusal to hold her accountable."

It was several seconds before Clariburnus came to understand just what his eldest brother meant by this, and when he did his expression inexorably darkened. "She believes she should be _punished_ for this?!"

"She does," Escanor confirmed with a heavy sigh, and he dropped his head helplessly into his outstretched hands. "I do not agree, of course. Punishing Soleil for this will neither benefit us nor absolve the crime that has been committed… The High Prince is in agreement with me on this, but Soleil's condition has not improved." Something about his own words seemed to serve as some sort of silent reminder then, and he lifted his head while shrugging the remnants of his own distress from the set of his shoulders. "It is my hope that when we have successfully accomplished that which the High Prince will soon be charging us with her demeanor will markedly improve, and we might all move past this into the new and glorious future of Thultanthar."

As if on cue the door opened then, admitting two more of their siblings – Sixth Prince Yder and Tenth Prince Rapha – and Clariburnus raised an unwilling eyebrow at their arrival.

He and his next-of-kin Yder had always gotten on relatively well – Clariburnus himself had trained his brother in the use of a blade and had been moderately pleased by both his willingness to learn and his attention to detail in combat. But the Princes of Shade entertained vastly different interests and life pursuits, and with Clariburnus already in line to become the youngest militia commander in the Army of Shade Yder had chosen another career path – that of Champion of the Faith, a pseudo-religious class that relied both on his skill with a blade and his devotion to his faith. Following his instruction at the Hall of the Arts Martial the Sixth Prince had joined their brother Rivalen at the Church of Shar where he furthered his understanding of the Shadovar's worship of the goddess Shar, by whose grace and divinity they had all managed to transcend mortality and embrace the essence of shadow; as a result Yder had become an instrument of their goddess' will, a tool She used to deliver justice upon those of conflicting religions. Armed with a pair of enchanted chakra, an extensive knowledge of divine magic and an above-average grasp of martial arts Yder had trained both his mind and his body to become the ultimate weapon in the holy war against Shar's eternal enemies, and thus far he had served the Night Mother well in his endeavors.

But it was Rapha that inevitably turned Clariburnus' thoughts to skepticism. One of the youngest of the High Prince's progeny, Rapha was oftentimes unpredictable, brash, and downright volatile; his penchant for unprovoked violence, his total disregard for authority and his complete lack of patience made him unfit to serve the Most High in many daily routines and tasks. Training a young Rapha in the ancient ways of Netherese swordplay had been a tedious chore that had taken every ounce of Clariburnus' considerable discipline, but the High Prince's decree that his tenth son be more than a skilled swordsman had driven Rapha into the tutelage of two very unlikely masters – twin princes Mattick and Vattick, illusionists by trade and practice and masters of the arcane at the Shadow Mages College. One would have assumed that Rapha's short temper and nearly nonexistent attention span might make him a poor candidate to truly appreciate the subtle yet devastating potential arcane study could grant a diligent student, but Rapha's love of wanton destruction had been instrumental in helping him form an affinity with the school of evocation magic; the combination of impressive weapon prowess and his strong grasp of destructive spellcasting made him a devastating hexblade, and so adept was he in his craft that he had since organized a select cabal of like-minded followers who trained under him. Clariburnus hadn't a clue how anyone could stand to take orders from the capricious Rapha, but neither could it be said that his unorthodox methods didn't get results.

"I would never question the High Prince's judgment," Clariburnus began dryly, eyeing the Tenth Prince with disdain as he flung himself theatrically into his seat near the foot of the council table, "but perhaps in this instance I would question his methods."

Escanor somehow managed to hide his smile on the pretense of running a hand surreptitiously down his face. Generally Clariburnus could be considered a good-natured man, but he had little love for Rapha – a sentiment that Escanor readily admitted to sharing.

"The Most High must be growing weary of leaving his affairs in the hands of those less capable," Rapha fired back, already bristling where he sat. "Why else would he have summoned me? He knows that my methods get results – something few others have been able to offer him of late."

Yder cuffed the Tenth Prince none-too-gently on the back of the head as he moved past him for his seat, hardly bothering to act as though the strike had been accidental; Rapha's answering glower wrung a chuckle of appreciation out of Clariburnus, who was usually quick with a joke or a laugh. "Shut up worm," Yder snapped testily, "and spare us your delusions of grandeur. None of us are fooled by your presence – there can be no other reason for your attendance than the High Prince has need of your sword arm, though for what I can hardly guess. There is a score of soldiers – and more, by my estimation! – under Clariburnus' tutelage with stronger arms than yours!"

Rapha's face predictably turned the color of sour milk – Escanor couldn't help laughing out loud at his expense, but reluctantly came to his aid moments later by way of apology. "But do any of their fireballs burn as hotly?" he asked rhetorically. "Can any of them conjure more potent storm clouds of acid rain, or command bolts of lightning to strike more precisely?"

"Well said, brother," Yder agreed with a certain degree of reluctance, and it was in that moment of begrudging peace that High Prince Telamont appeared within their midst.

"My sons," he addressed them immediately, and the complex cadence of his greeting ensnared them all as surely as if he had seized them simultaneously by the collars; gone was the ancient remorse he had displayed at Hadrhune's funeral, and the ageless sorrow they had all glimpsed in his eyes might have been little more than a memory. "It is good that you have all responded so readily to my summons, for we have much to discuss amongst ourselves this day." He clutched the back of his chair tightly with both hands and Escanor, the nearest to where he stood, was certain he heard the sleek ebony wood crack in their sovereign's grasp; the Most High surveyed them all with shrewd, searching eyes, silently assessing whether he could entrust the four of them with the great course he had chosen, but he must have found their expressions satisfactory for he did not study them for long.

"The death of Hadrhune, we can all agree, was a monstrous, unforgivable crime. The Spider Queen Lolth, whose nefarious schemes have long run counter to the Night Mother's will, has this time commanded her sycophantic followers to perpetrate an act of maliciousness that I am not prepared to abide. She has brought her perverted love of chaos and discord unbidden into our realm, and she has poisoned the minds and hearts of our beloved subjects with doubt and fear. Her underlings have time and again breached the defenses of our city without permission, and by their acts of unprovoked violence they have senselessly murdered an irreplaceable asset to our kind. For these crimes there can be no forgiveness, and those responsible can be shown no clemency.

"I now name the four of you _my_ advance guard, and your involvement in the battles to come will be instrumental in securing our success in this upcoming campaign. For from this moment forward, the Empire of Shade will be at war with Menzoberranzan."

It was much later in the day, long after the High Prince had laid his intricate plans of invasion with his four battle captains, that he was called upon by yet another of his sons – Fourth Prince Aglarel, the enigmatic leader of the secretive Assassin's Guild and the head of Telamont's personal security.

Typically surly in nature, Aglarel had seemed even more cold and distant than usual in the days since Hadrhune's death. The High Prince entertained his own suspicions as to why, of course, but had yet to approach Aglarel with his concerns for he was confident that when the Fourth Prince was ready to voice his grievances aloud, he would do so. As loyal as he was, Aglarel had never been one to keep his thoughts and opinions to himself – primarily because his relationship with the High Prince was such that in private they spoke as equals.

Aglarel was waiting for him in his private audience hall, seated upon the topmost stair leading to the High Prince's throne with his arms draped across his knees and his head down as he brooded; the Most High surveyed him somewhat sadly from the grand double doors that separated the audience hall from the rest of the palace before pushing the doors closed behind him and starting forward at a measured pace. He could only imagine what the Fourth Prince was feeling right now, for he had never been purposely omitted from a mission of such importance before.

"War," Aglarel said by way of greeting, his head still bowed, and the High Prince watched curiously as his son's fingertips twitched as though the notion of battle called to him on some deeper, more primal level.

"With Menzoberranzan," Telamont confirmed, though he was certain Aglarel didn't need to be told. If Aglarel already knew of the High Prince's intent to invade despite the fact that it was not yet public knowledge, it was reasonable to assume that he knew who their target was.

"You are willing to risk much to avenge a man who once entertained his own personal pleasures above even your agenda, Holy Father," Aglarel pointed out bluntly.

Telamont silently conceded this logic, for it was true that Hadrhune hadn't been in his good graces when the drow had committed their crimes, but Aglarel was only focusing on one of the many motivating factors that had fueled the decision to invade the city of the dark elves. "The children of Lolth came into our city unannounced and uninvited," he reminded bracingly. "They carried out elaborate assassination attempts against more amongst our number than just Hadrhune – if you recall, I was a target of theirs. So were you. So was our dear Sceptrana."

There had been a few other attempts as well, but Telamont chose to mention Aveil Arthien simply so that he could gauge his son's reaction. In the recent past Aglarel and Aveil had formed something of an unlikely partnership based on their mutual distrust of Lim Tal'eyve and their shared desire to protect the High Prince; nowadays it was rare to see one without the other close by, and Telamont often wondered whether Aglarel had considered pursuing the Sceptrana in a more private forum. These questions he had yet to voice aloud, however – Telamont trusted Aglarel perhaps above all others, and felt certain that Aglarel would share his intentions prior to acting upon them. At the mention of Aveil's name the Fourth Prince at last looked up, his cool silver eyes quietly assessing, and Telamont decided that a discussion of Aglarel's intentions where the Sceptrana was concerned could keep for another day.

"You have called upon four of my brothers to serve you in this," Aglarel pointed out, his tone of voice almost wounded, "but not once have you mentioned this to me. Why wouldn't you include me? I have led the Army of Shade into battle on more than one occasion – why not now?"

"Because," the High Prince murmured almost gently, "of late I find myself more concerned with your state of mind, and your overall well-being. The prospect of exposing you to situations where violence is a necessity is unsettling to me."

The flicker of anger these words flared deep within the pit of Aglarel's stomach prompted him to duck his head yet again, for these days even the slightest inclination toward rage was enough to wake the infuriated beast that lurked within him; he kept his gaze fixed determinedly on the floor as the unwanted creature clawed at his insides, praying that his sovereign would not notice. Ever since the High Prince had awoken the slumbering urges that were a by-product of Aglarel's half-devil blood the Fourth Prince had been struggling to contain the basest, most instinctive desires of both his body and his mind – in this endeavor Aglarel had had varying degrees of success and failure, though thankfully no one had yet to be seriously hurt as a result of his tenuous grip on his own self-control. He doubted anyone had even noticed his daily struggles, as the fallout of the drow's assassination attempts had claimed everyone's attentions of late, but he was beginning to worry that when the dust settled in the wake of Hadrhune's death he would have an increasingly difficult time keeping his anger in check. Sooner or later someone would notice, and how would he explain it away?

"Do not misunderstand," the High Prince clarified, and in a rare act of kindness he actually sat down upon the topmost stair right beside his son – it was practically unheard of for the venerable High Prince of Shade to place himself on an even level with anyone. "I trust you implicitly just as I always have, but there is a great deal we have yet to determine about your condition. Until I have ascertained how great a danger you are to yourself and to others I simply cannot justify sending you away, but it isn't only that – I would rather have you _here_, where I can always call upon you for your aid or your advice. Who would I entrust my affairs to if you were scouring the Underdark for drow?"

Aglarel barked out a single harsh laugh that left Telamont feeling guilty, an emotion that was all but foreign to him. "It seems I am unfit to serve you. Perhaps you should appoint someone else to attend to you and dismiss me from your servitude, wretch that I am."

"Aglarel – " the High Prince began, a protest on his lips, but Aglarel overrode him.

"No – please, Holy Father, there is no need for you to justify your decisions to me; I am but your humble servant, after all, and I haven't the authority to question you." The Fourth Prince lifted his head yet again, his expression pinched but resigned. "You have made good choices with Escanor and Clariburnus – they are unwaveringly devoted to fulfilling your every whim, and their tactical prowess and leadership skills will be instrumental in the success of this campaign. Yder and his ilk will combat Lolth's priestesses well, and even Rapha will find his place – the drow boast strong masters of the arcane, but they will be ill-suited to stand up to our hexblades. Your judgment, as always, is sound."

"I am thinking only of what is best for you," Telamont assured him, dropping a hand down upon Aglarel's shoulder and squeezing it briefly as if to impart courage. "Much as you try to hide it from me, I see how you are struggling – I seek only to ease your burden, and not add to it. Do not think that yours was not the first name I considered to deliver my retribution unto Menzoberranzan, for nothing could be further from the truth."

"You honor me," Aglarel responded, but his voice was inflectionless and hollow; he rose from where he sat then, looking suddenly restless. "I think it best that I test the integrity of the city's protective enchantments again, so please excuse me for now. You have only to call on me if you require my assistance."

"Yes," Telamont agreed, perfectly willing to allow Aglarel his escape, and turning on his heel the Fourth Prince disappeared in a shower of shadow particles that scattered upon the air like dust.

The High Prince glared down at the last of the shadow particles as they blended into the smooth black marble tile as though they had personally offended him, but the inhospitable expression turned thoughtful and melancholy before long. Since the moment Aglarel had been reborn from the shadow he had been a steadfast pillar of strength, a picture of dedication that the other Princes of Shade looked upon with quiet awe – now that these primal, animalistic urges had come to a head and were proving impossible to ignore, would he ever be that man again?

Lim didn't bother chasing after Twelfth Prince Brennus – what would be the point, after all? Brennus was out of options, he was just reluctant to admit as much at this juncture. Better to let him come to that realization on his own, for when he did he would be seeking Lim out with every ounce of energy he could muster and Lim would very much enjoy watching a Prince of Shade come crawling on his hands and knees for assistance. Perhaps if Lim was feeling charitable enough he would even agree to help him…

He didn't bother shadow-walking back to Villa Cambria directly, for he had his suspicions that some nameless member of the Shadow Court had planted spies and informants upon his housekeeping staff and he needed some time to think. Since Hadrhune's death he had become master of the household, an unexpected perk that he had thought he might enjoy but had actually become something of a nuisance; mistrust followed him like a stench upon the air, so foul that it actually wrinkled his nose at times. Though he hadn't had a hand in the seneschal's demise, everyone was content to blame him when they were certain he wasn't listening – if they knew what he was truly planning, the news of Hadrhune's murder would seem inconsequential in comparison!

After a few surreptitious glances around the bustling church square to ensure that his movements weren't being monitored, Lim descended the stairs from the church courtyard down into the cobblestoned lane, thumbing a simple silver pin in the shape of a rapier attached to the high collar of his cloak as he did so. He needed to get in touch with his own informant, and since the walls of his own home seemed to have unfriendly ears these days he supposed it might be safer to have this conversation in public. Turning left he made for the Lower District bazaar, where merchants and vendors aplenty were rolling out their carts for yet another day of business.

Loitering behind a jeweler peddling gemstones from the Unapproachable East, Lim invoked the hidden ability of the otherwise-nondescript pin.

_"__Exalted Blade,"_ came the faint echo of another voice, magically emanating from the miniature sword-tip of the pin. _"__It has been four days… I was beginning to worry."_

"Your concern is touching," Lim chuckled, his voice dripping with sarcasm, but privately he admitted that hearing someone express apprehension on his behalf was a welcome change – he had had quite enough of suspicion to last him a lifetime, and he suspected this wasn't about to change. "I need to talk to you about the book. When can you get away?"

"Tonight. I will contact you. Now is not the time, Exalted Blade, my apologies." And then he was gone.

Lim squinted up at the sky, which could be seen faintly on the other side of the thick curtains of everlasting shadow that protected the City of Shade from the perpetual harshness of the sun, and perceived that it wasn't quite noon yet. With council sessions suspended for the day while the High Prince and his retinue took a public day of rest to mourn Hadrhune's death, Lim had little to look forward to – how would he pass the time until the night arrived?

He rounded one side of the wooden cart on which a middle-aged Shadovar widow had chosen to display her gems and produced a handful of golden coins emblazoned with the High Prince's coat of arms. "For your fine topaz," he explained genially, watching with feigned interest as her eyes lit up – the coin he was offering was perhaps twice what the flat, emerald-cut stone was worth. "And your lovely smile."

She cupped her hands together gleefully and he tipped the coins into her eager fingers, waiting patiently while she fetched the stone he had requested, and while Lim inspected the clarity of the chartreuse gemstone she bowed graciously and thanked him. "This will do nicely, madam, thank you." And pocketing the stone he swept off up the lane, his feet guiding him in the direction of Tenth Prince Rapha's secret harem.

Briefly Lim wondered how Rapha, a man he considered more of an acquaintance than a friend, would receive him in the wake of Hadrhune's demise. When Lim had fallen in with Rapha shortly after his arrival in Thultanthar he had thought the man easy enough to read – practically a slave to the lusts of the flesh that he so craved, prone to acts of unprovoked violence, quick to shirk responsibility – but then Lim had invited Hadrhune into their midst in an effort to keep the seneschal close and things had subtly changed. Even now Lim suspected that Hadrhune had been playing him – had he misjudged Hadrhune completely from the moment they had formed their alliance? Was the seneschal really as disgraced as he had made himself out to be, or was it all a ruse that he had concocted to worm his way into Lim's inner circle? Lim had confided much in Hadrhune – far more than was wise, he admitted begrudgingly – and had no real way of knowing how much of that the seneschal had confessed to the High Prince prior to his death. Had he kept his silence, or had the Most High planted him in Lim's way simply to gather as much information as possible, knowing that Lim would prey upon Hadrhune's obvious vulnerability?

"Only one way to find out," he muttered beneath his breath, for he had reached the derelict-looking shack that in reality was the Tenth Prince's pleasure palace, and knocking to announce himself he pushed the door open without waiting for admittance.

The elaborate gathering area was devoid of life; Lim moved through the tidily-arranged mounds of pillows and the thin haze of incense smoke, casting his searching gaze all around but finding not a soul as he made his way toward the baths. He had a sinking feeling deep in the pit of his stomach that something was amiss, and he was almost certain he wasn't going to like what he found.

Several of the harem girls were lounging in the largest pool, their nude bodies scarcely visible through the heavy sheen of silver mist that clung to the surface of the bath; Lim recognized Wylandriah, a girl of celestial ancestry whom Hadrhune had once favored, and moved right up to the edge of the pool so that he could address her. "Hasn't your master come back yet, madam?"

She swam gracefully over to where he stood, her sinuous golden body a stark contrast to the dark, steamy water; was he imaging it, or was her expression somewhat unwelcoming? "Prince Rapha has returned to the palace at the High Prince's request," she told him readily enough, though her words were merely accommodating and not particularly friendly. "I do not expect him to return for quite some time yet."

Lim's thoughts raced, pondering the implications of what a meeting with the High Prince might mean. If Rapha had been summoned to the palace, it could only mean one of two things – either something unexpected had occurred shortly after the funeral services had adjourned and demanded Rapha's immediate attention, or the news that council meetings were suspended for the day had been a downright lie from the beginning. But why? Was it a ploy to keep him misinformed, while the Princes of Shade conspired behind his back? Was he even now in danger of being supplanted, or worse?

"I am sorry to hear that the prince is indisposed," he offered at length, hoping that his anxiety wasn't showing through in his expression, and in a spur of the moment bid to gather even a hint of information he added, "I do hope everything is alright… should I be worried for him?"

"I shouldn't think so," Wylandriah told him dismissively, tossing her pale blond hair over one shoulder and flinging stray water droplets in all directions. "But I am a lowly chamber maid, and I am not privy to the prince's business."

That settled it – he wouldn't find any answers here, regardless of how genial he pretended to be. Had Rapha already been here and instructed the girls to keep his affairs from reaching Lim's ears? "Of course," he replied with a warm smile and a polite little bow for her trouble. "I shan't badger you any longer, madam, and I thank you for your time."

Back on the moderately crowded streets of the Lower District he fumbled within his breeches pocket for the gem he had bought from the bazaar and rolled it over in his hand, feverishly considering his next move. He doubted that his partnership with Rapha would suffer much regardless of what events were currently unfolding within the Palace Most High, but he had never been one to bank all his hopes on one person and supposed it wouldn't hurt to start getting a contingency plan put into place. Rapha was almost laughably predictable and had been easy enough to cow after a few glasses of wine and a few visits to the harem, but Hadrhune had practically been in Lim's pocket and now he was simply _gone_. No, if he had any hope of solidifying his position at court he would need another ally, and he already had his next prospect in mind.

The Shadow Mages College was an oddly quiet place to be at this time of day, owing mostly to the fact that senior arcanists were giving lectures in the majority of the classrooms and all of the laboratories and private studies had been magically soundproofed to allow for maximum discretion; Lim walked the silent halls slowly, taking great care not to draw attention to himself or disrupt any of the lessons in progress. The man he was seeking inhabited one of the largest studies in the little-used sublevel of the college, in an area that required special clearance to even access – fortunately Hadrhune had granted Lim access in the early days of their partnership, and it was something that he still possessed.

It was uncomfortably chill in the basement, and somehow the cold seemed to be emanating from the study he intended to visit; Lim paused momentarily with one hand upon the doorknob, just long enough to lament his predicament, before knocking politely and admitting himself.

This visit was something of a gamble, he knew, for he had speculations regarding Seventh Prince Dethud's character but little concrete fact to base those suppositions on. Dethud spoke little during council sessions but when he did his words held great insight; Hadrhune had once mentioned that many of the Princes of Shade looked to Dethud for an unbiased opinion, but other than that they had never discussed the man. Lim knew that Dethud served the High Prince as his one and only necromancer, but even his craft of choice offered the drow-shade no clues as to his personality – the art of learning shadow magic was the art most popular within Thultanthar, whereas Dethud's field of study was viewed with a general dissatisfaction. The Seventh Prince trained no students and for the most part kept to himself when he wasn't attending to the High Prince – Lim could honestly say that for once he was completely unprepared, and for a man who was used to having the upper hand in every situation this was an oddly unsettling prospect.

"Pardon my intrusion," Lim announced by way of greeting, and winced almost immediately at the way the high-ceilinged ovular chamber magnified the volume of his voice.

Seventh Prince Dethud was standing in the center of the chamber, a bowl and pestle in one hand and the fingers of the other stained with a pale blue, faintly luminous paste that reminded Lim vaguely of the _faerzress_ of the Underdark; he appeared to be halfway through painstakingly etching a summoning circle upon the black tiled floor, the symbols distorted by a curious silver mist that swirled about his ankles. Lim had no immediate explanation for what might be causing the mist – how could it be a by-product of the summoning, when the circle was still half-finished? "Good afternoon," Dethud said, his greeting cordial but his expression curious – since Lim had come to Thultanthar they had never once conversed privately. "Is there something I might do for you?"

"Actually, no," Lim confessed, taking a couple of steps further into the room but somehow reluctant to complete his approach; some combination of the unexplainable chill that seemed to have settled upon the chamber and the Seventh Prince's too-focused stare had him feeling undeniably unnerved. Still, he had come here for a purpose – best not to squander this opportunity. "I overheard you telling Prince Vattick that you needed a particular gem for a necromantic rite that you intended to try, and as I was passing through the bazaar I happened upon just such a stone and procured it for you." He produced the stone from his breeches pocket and held it up for Dethud to see; it glittered somewhat ominously in the light from the dozen candles that the prince had lit on the enchanting table in one corner.

"How fascinating," Dethud said at length, drawing right up to Lim with his free hand outstretched to accept it, and in an effort to keep from coming into contact with the unnatural electric-blue paste that still stained the prince's fingertips Lim dropped it into the center of his palm before hastening to put several paces between them. If Dethud was at all bothered by Lim's obvious discomfort, though, he did well not to let it show as he rolled the gem over in his hand, careful not to let its shimmering surface become soiled by the luminous paste. "This is most fortunate – this will do nicely for what I had in mind. Thank you." He overturned his hand suddenly, and Lim scrambled to catch the topaz before it struck the ground; Dethud smiled placidly before putting his back to the drow-shade and returning to the task at hand, coating his fingertips with more of the paste from the bowl. "I don't suppose you would set it on the shelf with the others?"

There were a number of meticulously-organized shelves lining the walls, Lim realized as he turned to look; the one just right of the enchanting table was lined with an assortment of stones of varying shapes, sizes, and cuts, and he made space for it between a rose quartz with a milky center and a malachite with blackened edges. The chill of the poorly-lit space had settled unpleasantly upon his arms by now but Lim's curiosity far outweighed his uneasiness as he studied the contents of the many other shelves at his leisure; there were racks of well-tended herbs and displays of mostly-complete skeletons and books with spines so faded their titles had been lost to the passage of time, and his intrigue was such that for a moment he thought he understood why the Seventh Prince was content to spend so much of his time down here. He took his time appraising the contents of each shelf as slowly he made a full circuit around the ovular chamber, and as he at last pried his eyes away from a cracked black-glass mirror with an elaborately gilded frame he found that he recognized the now mostly-complete summoning circle that Dethud was almost lovingly attending to. "You are summoning a _yochlol_?"

With the tip of his index finger Dethud painted the last symbol upon the floor and rose, inspecting each and every rune he had drawn with a practiced eye. "Yes. The High Prince has commissioned me to call one here and imprison it within this circle, where I will have all the time I need to extract as much useful information as I can from it. It might be helpful to me if you stayed – perhaps if the creature thinks you are the one who summoned it here, it might speak with you a little more freely. You are a drow, after all."

There was something unnerving about Dethud's openness and honesty, but Lim determinedly kept talking – how much might he learn at the behest of the prince's loosened tongue? "Is there a purpose to the summoning? Is there something the Most High is hoping you might learn?"

"I suppose any details regarding your city of origin would be considered most helpful," Dethud admitted, retreating to the enchanting table and wiping his hand clean on a cloth after setting aside the bowl and pestle. "We will need all the information we can gather before we strike the first blow in the war against Menzoberranzan."

"War?" Lim echoed incredulously, imagining that his heart would be hammering against his ribs had he still retained his mortality. "Against Menzoberranzan?"

"Oh," Dethud observed, taking in the shock on the drow's face with disinterest. "I see you haven't been told… Well, I suppose there isn't any harm in you knowing at this point. There's no reason to lie to you, or to withhold any pertinent information from you."

A flicker of hope bloomed in Lim's chest at these words – had he just secured his newest ally? "Oh?"

"No – you are one of us, after all. And besides…" Dethud smiled in a truly demented way then, the maniacal glint in his eyes somehow magnifying the awful chill in the air, and finished, "Surely by now you know that if you betray the High Prince or any of my brothers I will personally ensure your death is unthinkingly vile?"

Lim had spent years being tortured by the goddess Lolth in the blackest bowels of the Abyss, yet even those memories were somehow less repugnant than the Seventh Prince's wicked smile. "O-of course," he stammered, ashamed of the way his teeth clacked together in fear, and Dethud dropped a companionable hand down upon his shoulder before turning to face the eerily-glowing symbols etched painstakingly upon the floor.

"Feel free to stay and witness the summoning," Dethud called genially over his shoulder, and with a snap of his fingers he conjured crackling cerulean flames in each of the four spindly black braziers marking the outermost edges of the circle.

Lim practically sprinted from that awful chamber, and didn't once look back as he fled; he made it halfway to the bazaar before it even occurred to him that he had the ability to shadow walk, and the moment he remembered he slipped into the Plane of Shadow for no better reason than to put as much distance between himself and that horrid study as possible.

It was hardly past midday when he stepped out of the Shadow Realm and back into the safety and comfort of his private chambers within Villa Cambria, but he collapsed upon his bed gladly and covered his face in his hands. Thultanthar had declared war on Menzoberranzan, the single largest city of dark elves in the Underdark? How had news of this magnitude escaped his notice? Why hadn't Rapha, at least, felt obligated to keep him informed? Hadn't they reached an agreement? Wasn't their arrangement one of mutual gain?

"Damn it all," he hissed aloud, dropping his hands helplessly to his sides, and glaring up at the ceiling he summarized the pathetic amount of details he had managed to glean thus far.

Dethud hadn't seen any real reason to withhold any of the particulars from him, so grudgingly Lim came to the conclusion that he had no cause to doubt anything the Seventh Prince had told him. That being said, if Rapha was attending to the High Prince at such a crucial time it could only mean that the Most High had selected him to lead at least a faction of the forces he was mustering to lay siege to Menzoberranzan. The very notion of Rapha traveling beyond the boundaries of the Empire of Shade was enough to make Lim panic, and not because he was at all concerned for the Tenth Prince's safety – no, the simple fact of the matter was that if Rapha left the city Lim would be completely without friends upon the Shadow Council, and that was a precarious position indeed to be placed in. As of yet no one had any reason to believe that Lim had had a hand in the botched chain of assassination attempts that had culminated in Hadrhune's death – at least, not that he knew of – but if the enclave emptied for the coming war and Lim was not among those forces the eyes that were left would undoubtedly turn themselves in his direction. The High Prince and whichever of his progeny he chose to remain behind and defend him would make following Lim's every move a priority, and what would he do then? How could his plans progress if their eyes shadowed every step he took? The only other man he could count on was now thousands of miles away, and if they endeavored to speak at the incorrect time…

"_Exalted Blade_," came an unexpected call from the sword-tip of the pin he still wore, and sitting up swiftly Lim removed the trinket from his collar and held it in the palm of his hand as the voice addressed him. _"__Can you hear me? I have only a moment, but I could not bear the idea of making you wait any longer. Are you well?"_

He let the naked concern in the disembodied voice's tone wash over him, expelling a certain measure of anxiety from his veins; it was easier to think clearly when his extremities didn't feel electrified by fear. "I am as well as I can be, trapped as I feel within this fortress of perpetual suspicion. With each passing day I feel even more unwelcome than before, and since you killed Hadrhune…" He bit back his accusation, knowing that it wasn't in the least bit constructive. Mourn hadn't meant to kill the seneschal, after all – the last shred of Hadrhune's decency had interfered at the precise inopportune time, and as a result he had sacrificed himself in place of Soleil, First Prince Escanor's new bride.

_"__It pains me to think that by my actions I have left you friendless in that wretched place," _lamented Mourntrin Auvryndar, the last of the renegade all-male drow sect known as the Jaezred Chaulssin and Lim's only connection to his life's true purpose – the complete eradication of Lolth, the deity who reigned over the dark elves._ "__But it cannot be helped. Are there no others now within the High Prince's inner circle who might favor your cause?"_

"I have all but exhausted my prospects," Lim admitted, the words leaving a horrid taste in his mouth, "but I will not give up hope. Have you found the blade?"

Mourn's role in the Jaezred Chaulssin was a high honor given only to one of the most devout members of that faction – that of Keeper of the Blade, whose only purpose was to safeguard the Anointed Blade until such time as the Exalted Blade could wield it against the Spider Queen. Mourn had been in possession of the Anointed Blade, a holy relic of renowned strength, years ago while Lim had been enjoying his lichdom and conquering the Bloodstone Lands, but before he could deliver it he had been attacked and imprisoned by a cabal of pale-skinned spellcasters whose home was in a lightless corner of the Underdark that Mourn had never glimpsed before. During his imprisonment the Anointed Blade had been taken from him, but he had stolen an ancient tome of unknown significance from one of his interrogators shortly before escaping their clutches and fleeing into the uncharted tunnels of the Underdark. Even Lim didn't know the particulars of just how Mourn had managed to escape that day – all he knew was that Mourn had survived the perils of the Underdark and found himself wandering the outskirts of Menzoberranzan, where thankfully he had been welcomed into the male drow mercenary band called Bregan D'aerthe. There he had bided his time until Lim had been raised from the dead and made a shade, and when news of Lim's resurrection had reached him he had made every effort to contact him. It had taken the unadulterated chaos of Hadrhune's death for them to earn a scant few minutes alone, but that had been enough for Mourn to deliver the book he had stolen into Lim's hands. Afterward Lim had hastened to Hadrhune's private chambers and scraped together enough spellcasting components to create a portal back to the Underdark, and Mourn had made his escape just in time to avoid being apprehended by the Princes of Shade.

Lim wasn't fool enough to believe that if the truth of his involvement with Hadrhune's assassin ever came to light he would have any hope of survival.

_"__My progress has been slow,"_ Mourn admitted darkly, but Lim was hardly surprised. Barely two weeks had elapsed since Mourn had made his return to Bregan D'aerthe, and he was still working to avoid the scrutiny that had spawned from the death of high priestess Quartana Baenre; Mourn had killed her to keep Lim alive, and the ruling House Baenre would surely put an end to him if they knew. _"__I am still working to re-integrate myself into Bregan D'aerthe. Their interim leader is Kimmuriel Oblodra, a known psionist, and I must work tirelessly to keep my true thoughts from him when I am in his presence."_

"Keep to your current course," Lim ordered him reluctantly – the prospect of any harm befalling Mourn, the only ally still living that Lim could trust, was simply unbearable. "When you are absolved of all doubt and your movements are no longer closely monitored you will have little difficulty getting the answers we require."

"Of course, Exalted Blade," agreed Mourn readily enough before adding, "You mentioned the book."

Ah yes, the book.

Lim unwillingly tore his eyes from the pin that was still cradled in his hands and cast his glance across the bedchamber to where the book lay, face-up but carefully closed in the center of his study desk. Even from a distance he could feel the ageless potential emanating from within its weathered pages, an aura of limitless knowledge and untold strength and certain doom. Two weeks. In the two weeks the tome had been in his possession, Lim hadn't so much as opened the cover.

Of the book, Lim actually knew shockingly little. After several days of careful observation he had deduced that the cover was actually the well-preserved hide of an elder blue dragon, but from that one detail had stemmed still more questions. Who had the strength to not only kill a venerable chromatic dragon, but to strip the hide from its bones? What incredible magic resided within the book's cover that kept the skin so perfectly preserved and made it impervious to the elements? And where had it been penned, if not in the Underdark where Mourn had found it? This last question was perhaps the most vexing by far, for if Lim couldn't even pinpoint the tome's origin he had little chance of ever unraveling its secrets. Mourn swore he had stolen the book from one of the "pale-faced wizards" who had captured and tortured him, but the ancestry of his captors remained a mystery to Lim. Even the physical description Mourn had provided gave Lim no clues as to their race or where their homeland might be, for in all the years he had resided in the Underdark he had not once come across a creature matching that description. Not to mention that blue dragons were beasts of the surface world, and were ill-suited to life beneath the earth – those majestic creatures craved the open sky where they could stretch their awe-inspiring wings in flight, not the confines of dank, lightless tunnels. Did that mean the book originated from somewhere on the surface world? Had it been penned by wizened sages who had eventually fled to the Underdark, or had it been forcibly taken from them by some race that made their homes beneath the surface world?

Then there were its pages, if you could call them that – Lim hadn't opened the book yet, by virtue of the lock that bound it shut and the undeniably intimidating enchantments that proved just as daunting if not more so. The edges of the pages were all Lim could see, but he wasn't entirely convinced they were even made of paper – the edges seemed too thick to be used as a writing surface and were sharp as blades and the color and consistency of unyielding stone. He felt certain that he could break the lock with minimal effort – it appeared to be made of bronze, but there were deep grooves running through the battered metal that hinted at brittle construction – but still he didn't dare try. Doubtless the protective enchantments woven into the book's cover would react unfavorably if he used force, and Lim had no desire to take such a risk until he had a better idea just what he was dealing with.

"I have learned nothing from it," he confessed at length, running a hand down his face in barely-sublimated frustration. "I dare not even touch it, for since you left it in my care I have been unable to unravel even one of the enchantments its creators cast upon it. Can you tell me anything of the sorcerers you stole it from? Anything that you have remembered since we last spoke?"

"Regrettably I have disclosed every detail," said Mourn with a sigh, but he hastened to offer a helpful suggestion. "If I may be so bold as to counsel you, Exalted Blade… I think the time has come for you to make good on your vow to assist the disgraced prince who led me to you the day I killed Hadrhune and Quartana. I know you are reluctant to disclose the existence of the book to anyone not affiliated with the Jaezred Chaulssin – and of course I cannot say that I blame you in the slightest – but with your options wearing thin and friends few and far between you may have no choice but to reach out to him for aid. If he is as dishonored as you say he will be desperate to accept this opportunity, and in his desperation he will likely follow your lead."

Lim rolled his eyes skyward, mulling over the idea in his mind. It was true that in his current predicament Twelfth Prince Brennus would likely not shun the prospect of an alliance, but Lim wasn't sure he had much fondness for the idea of casting his lot in with a man who didn't possess the favor of the High Prince. The last member of the Shadow Council who had been so disgraced had been quite a great supporter of Lim, it was true, but now he was dead and Lim was worse off than before. And what if Brennus possessed the magical acumen to disable the book's enchantments? What if he could unlock the tome's secrets and wield the spells penned within? Brennus was a loremaster of Ancient Netheril, the once-grand civilization of brilliant archwizards from whom the Princes of Shade were all directly descended – the notion that he might gain a deeper understanding of the book wasn't entirely outside the realm of possibility.

And if it _was_ possible, what then? He would either become the most powerful ally Lim had ever had, or he would become a nigh-unstoppable adversary. Could Lim afford to take such a risk?

"If he dispels the book's enchantments and gleans even a fraction of its knowledge," Lim hypothesized aloud, "he will become a force that even the High Prince himself would be hard-pressed to combat."

That was when Mourn said the words that ultimately solidified Lim's decision to enlist Brennus's aid.

"Or he will fall to the book's power," Mourn pointed out deviously, "and you will have one less Prince of Shade to contend with."


	3. Chapter Three - King of Fools

Phendrana awoke the next morning and lay there as still as if he had been petrified; it was one of those increasingly rare moments that his mind was blissfully clear and quiet, as though he was the master of his mental facilities and no one else was privy to his thoughts and emotions. These moments he appreciated above all others, for he had no way of knowing just how long the silence would last before it was shattered by those awful screams.

The memory of stumbling upon the dying seneschal Hadrhune, his broken body collapsed upon a bed of violet and white flower petals and his lifeblood staining the grass black, had scarcely faded from the doppelganger's recollection and he felt certain it never would. At the time he had easily justified his acute need to preserve Hadrhune in the only way he knew how with the simple logic that the wounds he had sustained were fatal – surely it was better to at least protect the seneschal's psyche, rather than lose him for good and all? In truth he'd had no guarantee that he could manage it, for the shadow essence that now sustained him had purged his six friends from his mind upon healing the physical infirmities that had been inflicted upon his body and the ring Brennus had constructed in secret acted as something of a shield against unwanted mental stimuli. But the moment he'd taken Hadrhune's hand he'd known that they were destined to walk their lonely, broken roads together. The act of assimilating Hadrhune's psyche into his mind had been easy, almost effortless.

The act of living with Hadrhune was anything but.

In the weeks that had passed since Hadrhune's physical form had expired the two hadn't spoken – Phendrana hadn't the sanity left to pursue even a mundane conversation, and Hadrhune wanted nothing more than to make the doppelganger's mind as unpleasant a place as possible. From the moment his consciousness stirred to the moment it became too fatigued to function Hadrhune was a whirlwind of grief and rage – he screamed as though his body was being dragged through an endless pool of white-hot, molten sunlight, a single unbroken note that made it impossible for Phendrana to even think a coherent thought. And as miserable as his presence now made Phendrana, there wasn't a single word the doppelganger could say to console his unwilling companion. This situation was unprecedented for them both, whether or not Hadrhune had the capacity to comprehend as much. The others Phendrana had once shared his mind with had come there willingly, had embraced the death of their bodies and made peace with the continued existence of their memories. Hadrhune had been dragged into Phendrana's mind involuntarily – he had desired death with every fiber of his being, only to have death ripped from his grasp.

Briefly Phendrana considered the dozens of times over the past several weeks that he had felt compelled to confess the existence of the High Prince's chosen emissary within his mind, but he could never form the words. There was no way of knowing how this news would be received, and that thought was nothing short of terrifying – would his masters consider this a flaw in his design? Would his usefulness be called into question, as it had been since he had become a shade? Would they insist that it was a mental defect that made him unfit to serve the High Prince? If they cast him out, where would he go? How could he ever hope to survive outside the safety of Thultanthar?

He was almost grateful when he sensed Hadrhune's consciousness stirring within the uncharted annals of his mind and immediately begin screaming, for the din made it impossible for him to focus on his swiftly-mounting panic; numbly he pushed himself out of bed and set to rummaging through his chest-of-drawers for something to wear, each movement automatic, and wondered how he would survive if he was doomed to live out the rest of his days this way.

"Have you seen him?" Lamorak asked idly, sipping at his steaming mug of tea, and Brennus blanched before he remembered that he was supposed to be feigning disinterest where Phendrana was concerned. Fortunately Lamorak didn't very strictly enforce the High Prince's rule that Brennus and Phendrana were forbidden to have contact of any sort – the Third Prince at least allowed Brennus to inquire after Phendrana's health, and that was something.

"In passing," the Twelfth Prince answered carefully – it was all fine and good that he and Lamorak were able to speak freely when none of their other siblings were present, but he suspected that to appear too invested in Phendrana's affairs would be most unwise. "I saw him yesterday at the funeral, of course, but we did not speak." It was quiet for a moment while Brennus thoughtfully chewed a strawberry, but he wasn't hungry and he scarcely tasted the sweetness of its juices upon his tongue anyway; when Lamorak didn't reply the youngest prince cast his brother a glance, only to find Lamorak staring down at the contents of his teacup with the most forlorn expression Brennus had ever seen him wear. Anything less than complete composure was most uncharacteristic of Lamorak; it prompted Brennus to sit up a little straighter, his forehead creasing in a frown. "Brother? Are you unwell?"

Lamorak's eyes darted for the door, but Brennus had already recognized his brother's desire for absolute privacy and had abandoned his seat at the breakfast table before so much as finishing his question; reaching the door he deftly turned the key in the lock, ensuring that no one would interrupt them at an inopportune time before whirling back to face Lamorak, who by now had all but forgotten his tea as his fingers twisted worriedly in his lap. He pitched his voice low then, and the words came out rushed and feverish.

"Something is wrong," he said insistently, his silver eyes ablaze with a combination of anxiety and suspicion. "Something of great importance has transpired in recent times that he has somehow managed to keep from divulging to anyone. Even the High Prince has noticed Phendrana's inattentiveness, his lack of social interaction and his complete disinterest in the Shadow Court's affairs… Just this morning he summoned me to inquire after the state of Phendrana's mental health and I had nothing to tell him. _Nothing!_ How has it come to this? Just weeks ago Phendrana confided his every thought and feeling to me, and now he scarcely looks my way. I am worried for him, brother. If I thought he preferred the company of another over my own I might understand, but he shuns all social contact. This is not like him. I have no explanation for this behavior."

Brennus didn't know whether to feel comforted or enraged by the obvious sincerity of his brother's concern, but did his best not to allow his personal feelings to gain any footing in his reply. "You are right to be distressed," he said by way of reassurance, "for I have noticed a certain vacancy in Phendrana's eyes of late also. I can only speculate as to what the cause is, but let us not forget that he was present when Hadrhune breathed his last. For a man who is as well acquainted with death as Phendrana is, I can only imagine the emotional trauma this event has caused him."

"For a man who is as well acquainted with death as Phendrana is," Lamorak countered deftly, "you would think that he would keep his composure all the better. They are as close as old friends, Phendrana and death – did he not journey to Manifest on several occasions? He has conversed with the wayward souls of those who once shared his consciousness and he has glimpsed the Veil that separates our world from the land where the dead roam… His case is most atypical. I cannot imagine that Hadrhune's death is the cause of such a drastic change in his behavior."

"Loss affects us all differently," Brennus pointed out, doing his best not to sound offended – was Lamorak under the misconception that he knew Phendrana better? Immediately he regretted entertaining such a thought, for it brought rise to an even more unsettling question – what if that much was true? "Perhaps that is the case in this instance."

Lamorak was tracing the rim of his delicate porcelain teacup with the index finger of one hand, his gaze far away as he considered. "What would be the reason?" he mused aloud, as much to himself as to Brennus. "Phendrana and Hadrhune were hardly close. Why would Hadrhune's death affect him so?"

In lieu of an answer, Brennus asked yet another question. "And the High Prince has noticed Phendrana's strange behavior? How did you find him?"

"The Most High is… inquisitive," Lamorak decided at last, though his hesitation made Brennus wonder if he was being entirely truthful. "He asks questions I cannot answer. I wouldn't know how Phendrana's lessons are progressing, because he can hardly be considered _present_ even when he is sitting across the desk from me. I haven't the faintest idea whether his mental facilities are improving or failing, for even when I attempt to infiltrate his mind I find it closed to me. There is only darkness, and a voice that is not Phendrana's that is equally dark."

Brennus returned to the table and leaned conspiratorially closer; Lamorak's observation brought to mind a memory from yesterday, when Brennus had attempted to glimpse Phendrana's thoughts and been stymied as to what he found there. "I have seen the same – yesterday I thought he was trying to speak with me, but when I probed his mind for answers I nearly lost my way. He begged me for help, but for the life of me I can't imagine what he is so frightened of." Brennus tapered off, remembering, before finishing sadly, "His mind felt… foreign… to me."

The Third Prince leaned back in his chair, balancing it on its back two legs as he crossed his arms. "The High Prince should be told."

"Told what?" barked out Brennus with a single cold, skeptical laugh. "That I have been interfering in all of Phendrana's affairs despite the High Prince's strict orders otherwise? You are proposing that I allow you to sign my own death warrant, and that I simply will not do. You know that all I do, I do to ensure that Phendrana is kept safe – knowing that, will you still call me a threat?"

Lamorak's lips twitched into the ghost of an unwilling smile, his expression mocking enough that for a moment Brennus was incensed at his audacity, but he was quick to explain. "No – though as always I appreciate your enthusiasm, for the constant reminder that you haven't yet given up hope is heartening." Brennus sobered, embarrassed by his outburst, as Lamorak leaned minutely forward and dropped the front two legs of his chair back to the ground and continued, "I mean that the High Prince should be informed of what we two have deduced regarding Phendrana's behavior, though of course when I present it to him I will neglect to mention that you were involved."

Brennus opened his mouth to agree but bit back his eagerness just in time. Lamorak was shrewd and brilliant – Brennus could recall idolizing him at a young age, and had always felt a certain measure of pride swell within him when members of the Upper Court fawned over how similar they seemed. Even knowing that it was often difficult to keep in mind that Lamorak's keen intelligence made him perhaps more dangerous than the rest of their brothers – combined with his soft-spoken yet likeable personality he seemed more friend than threat, and therein was the danger. Confiding in him was easy, natural even, and one was often lured into dropping their guard and disclosing things they would do better to keep private. Brennus knew he had been guilty of this on more than one occasion, and now that his reputation was in question it was more crucial than ever that he be wary of sharing too much with Lamorak. By all accounts the Determinist Prime currently entertained the High Prince's trust, and there wasn't a soul among them who wouldn't forsake a brother if it meant keeping such a thing. Brennus couldn't prove it, but he was positive that Lamorak was using his camaraderie with Phendrana to keep himself well informed – Phendrana gave his trust freely, and made for easy prey for someone like Lamorak.

Nevertheless, there was no questioning that if Phendrana was behaving strangely their sovereign needed to know about it; Brennus heeded the logic of his own thoughts and silently vowed to be more careful in the future. "He should know," the Twelfth Prince agreed, hoping that ever-observant Lamorak hadn't noticed the lengthy pause leading up to his reply. "You will tell him?"

"He is preoccupied today preparing for the siege of Menzoberranzan," Lamorak reminded loftily, "but I am to meet with him tomorrow. I will bring these concerns to him then."

Brennus returned to his own tea, which by now was almost unpleasantly cool; beyond his balcony The Circle was bustling with activity, and he longed for the days when he had been able to come and go as he pleased. More to gauge Lamorak's true thoughts on the matter than anything he said thoughtfully, "I was surprised to hear that you had not been chosen as one of the High Prince's battle captains. Your tact would have served us well against the dark elves' cunning."

"I'm not," said Lamorak with a scoff, and he offered Brennus something of an indulgent smile when he finished, "You and I are not well suited for battles that are won with swords and shields, brother – our strength is in our minds."

A knock sounded on the door while Brennus was pondering his brother's enigmatic answer; he pushed himself from his chair and skirted around the table, wondering who would possibly be coming to call on him. It was no secret that the High Prince was displeased with him, and oftentimes associating with someone who was not in their sovereign's favor could tarnish one's own reputation.

It was Lux, the head of Villa Tareia's housekeeping staff and Phendrana's personal attendant; he smiled widely at Brennus by way of greeting and presented him with a simple sheaf of parchment that had been folded twice neatly. For a moment, Brennus rejoiced – surely this was a correspondence from Phendrana, whom Brennus dared to believe was on the road to forgiving him his abominable behavior over the course of the past several months – but there was a shadow of concern lingering in certain angles of Lux's smile that made him think otherwise. Swiftly Brennus unfolded the parchment, to find that it hadn't been penned by the doppelganger's hand at all – instead he saw a brief, cryptic message in an unfamiliar scrawl whose owner he was certain he could guess.

Come and see me at your earliest convenience. The time has come for me to make good on my promise.

Though it took the loremaster only a moment to read the note, Lux was nowhere to be seen when he looked up with questions in his eyes; Brennus dropped his gaze yet again and let his eyes fly over the brief message, willing himself to read between the lines. Though he could never miss the meaning of this particular letter, it was what the pointed words _didn't_ say that caught his interest the most; it had been written hurriedly, as evidenced by the untidy letters, and its writer hadn't even hand delivered it. Most would call that rudeness or inattentiveness, but Brennus knew better – whatever Lim Tal'eyve had deduced since they had last spoken had him distinctly unnerved, so much so that he didn't dare leave his abode to discuss it.

What could possibly have rattled the drow's usually unshakeable composure?

"Who is it?" called Lamorak from behind him, even as Brennus whispered a quick arcane phrase and reduced the slip of parchment to charred embers in his hand.

"Only one of the kitchen staff," Brennus lied smoothly, turning back with a smile and closing the door softly behind him, "asking if we would like more tea."

The arrow sliced straight and true through the air, its sharp silver head embedding in the handcrafted target carved into the trunk of a shadow ash tree a half inch diagonally right of the bullseye; Aveil Arthien lowered her finely-hewn dragon-heartstring bow and exhaled with pride, pleased with the accuracy of her shot, while Timena and the other ladies-in-waiting tittered in appreciation and clapped politely.

Standing level with the Sceptrana a few feet away Princess Soleil Tanthul, the new bride of First Prince Escanor, glowered at the arrow where it shuddered in the tree and drew another arrow of her own from the quiver slung over her left shoulder. "Well done," she offered grudgingly, and the obvious reluctance of her praise forced a laugh out of Aveil as she tucked a stray strand of hair behind one ear.

"Yes," agreed a male voice from behind them, and turning Aveil recognized the High Prince's second eldest son Rivalen leaning against a towering blackwood maple and watching the exchange with interest. "Well done indeed."

Soleil snickered beneath her breath and adjusted her grip upon the dryad-hair bow she held, careful not to meet Aveil's smoldering glare. "Go and talk to him."

"We are in the middle of a game," the Sceptrana pointed out, her tone leaving little room for debate.

The princess broadened her stance and lifted her bow, the relaxed set of her shoulders and the tautness in her arms belying her skill with the weapon in her hands; she sighted down the shaft of the arrow with an expert's eye for only a moment before letting fly, smirking with superiority when it thudded home precisely in the center of the target. Soleil turned her sweet smile upon Aveil then, who met her gaze with one of withering disapproval. "Now our game is done," Soleil told her simply, and snatching the bow deftly from Aveil's slackened grasp she shoved the Sceptrana a step or two in Rivalen's direction. "And you are out of excuses to avoid him. Now go. Master your anger at your own lack of skill before I best you again!"

"You are insufferable," Aveil huffed, but she started toward the Second Prince nonetheless.

Aveil would never admit it aloud, but few men confused her as completely as the High Priest of Shar. In the time she had spent living in Thultanthar she had formed few alliances – for months her time had been spent suffering prejudice in relative silence and serving the High Prince diligently but thanklessly, for she had originally come into their midst via distrustful ways to complete deceitful ends and the sons of Telamont were prone to long-lasting grudges. Her partnership with Fourth Prince Aglarel was a relatively recent development formed and strengthened by their mutual mistrust of Lim Tal'eyve, and though both Lamorak and Phendrana had stood beside them while they battled back a ceaseless procession of drow assassins she still considered them acquaintances only; her newfound friendship with Soleil was something she enjoyed very much, but this bond was the most recently forged by far. The rest of the High Prince's progeny had come to tolerate her presence since her appointment to Sceptrana, but otherwise she had been given no special treatment and for the most part still felt excluded from most everyday affairs.

Rivalen's opinion of her had seemingly changed overnight, beginning when Escanor and Soleil's bridal masquerade had gone awry just a few weeks before. When an incredibly potent daylight spell had erupted in the ballroom and incapacitated hundreds of shades at a time, few had been able to muster a counter attack of any kind; Aveil had made the safety of the Princes of Shade her priority, and the first one she had inadvertently rescued was Rivalen. The Second Prince had somehow been able to convert the core of Aveil's staff into life-giving shadow energy, thus revitalizing him as he lay dying, and Aveil had been able to buy enough time for him to bring his brothers back from the brink of death. He had made her a vow that day, one that at the time she had been certain was simply the words of a madman – that no more injustice would befall her, and that he would strive to make her advancement a priority.

The first example of his sincerity had been subtle, but it had both shocked and pleased her immensely. It had been just before the start of a morning council session had come to order, shortly after Hadrhune's death; she had just entered alone to take her seat near the end of the table, and Rivalen had actually hailed her. "Good morning, Sceptrana."

She'd been so taken aback at first – typically no one addressed her during meetings save the High Prince and Aglarel – that it had taken her an embarrassingly long time to formulate any sort of reply. "Hello, Prince."

Yder and Rapha, both openly against her advancement and men she secretly despised, had glanced between them incredulously; Rapha had looked disgusted and appalled, and his reply had made his emotions quite clear. "You waste your time on niceties with this harlot," he'd scoffed with a laugh, while beside him Yder had snickered into the back of his hand. "And here I'd thought you quite adept when it comes to choosing your friends wisely, brother. Perhaps the sunlight wounded you more seriously than I'd realized."

Given that Aveil had worked tirelessly to be viewed as someone of impeccable moral fortitude since her appointment to Sceptrana the Tenth Prince's words had initially wounded her deeply, but though tears pricked the backs of her eyes she met his hateful glare unashamedly, determined not to let him see as much. Half the room had been laughing at her expense when Rivalen actually rose from his chair at the opposite end of the table and quieted them all with a single wrathful glare before setting his reproachful eyes upon Rapha. "An interesting choice of words coming from the man whose bastard children fill the streets of the Lower District," the Second Prince had said, displeasure rolling off of him in nearly-tangible waves. "And never forget, brother, that if it weren't for the Sceptrana here you would no longer have a tongue to wag… I would take care how I address those I was indebted to in the future, were I you, else you find yourself with an even more powerful enemy to consider."

He'd taken his seat then without another word, seemingly oblivious to the incredulous stares his words had earned him, but just once during a particularly mundane portion of the meeting Aveil had caught his eye and offered him a grateful smile that he'd actually returned; it was small and fleeting, but it was the first one she had ever seen him wear and she'd been utterly stunned by it. He'd come to visit with her twice since Hadrhune's death but never privately – always it was like this, out in the open in clear view of the princess and her attendants. Could it be he was doing his best not to intimidate her?

Aveil closed the distance between them with a smile that was both shy and a little awkward; Rivalen pushed off the tree and moved to meet her, wearing an expression that she thought must closely mirror her own. He had just come from morning mass at the Church of Shar, she knew, for he was still wearing the amulet encrusted with weighty blue-black diamonds that he donned for public worship. "Hello, Prince."

"Good morning, Sceptrana." His greeting made her want to laugh – always their salutations were the same, and they always made her recall the first day he had all but pledged his support for her openly to his brothers. He gestured with one hand to the practice range that Timena had arranged for them to use, where Soleil was now leisurely firing practice shots. "You shoot quite well, for a wizard – I wasn't aware that was one of your many skills."

"Good marksmanship comes naturally to the snow elves, who easily master any task in which dexterity is essential," Aveil pointed out. "I trained at an early age, long before I became enamored of the arcane – sorcery is not a common practice among my people, so I did not begin my studies of evocation until after I left the Spine of the World. I am teaching the princess at her request, but as you can see she has already surpassed me."

"She must have a fine tutor to accomplish such a feat so quickly," Rivalen pointed out kindly, and gesturing to her they started walking at a leisurely pace side by side; a soft breeze whispered through the trees that formed a perimeter around the garden and stirred Aveil's hair about her shoulders, rustling the leaves of the row of blackwood maples. "Council sessions are private again today but I have spoken with Escanor, and he has told me much of the High Prince's plans to invade Menzoberranzan. I thought I would keep you informed."

Aveil nodded interestedly, but in truth she already knew the details of the coming war well; Aglarel had called upon her an hour ago, while the church bells were sounding the start of the morning mass, and told her everything. "The High Prince has chosen those who will lead the Army of Shade?"

"Indeed, though I am not one of them. My place is here, where I can best ensure that the High Prince's subjects receive a thorough understanding of the Night Mother's teachings."

This did not surprise Aveil; Rivalen was devout and wise, but he was less seasoned than many of his brothers when it came to combat – his true strength lay in the solidity of his faith, which she had heard told was a force to be reckoned with. It was only through Rivalen's pious divinations with the goddess Shar that Thultanthar had eventually emerged from the perpetual darkness of the Realm of Shadow and back onto the Material Plane from whence it had come – no small feat after a seventeen-century long sojourn!

Still, it wasn't her wish to offend him. "As Shar's most devoted follower, I can only imagine the havoc you would wreck against the high priestesses of the Spider Queen," she told him. "The divine magic she undoubtedly gifts you would surely crush the devotees of Lolth… I am certain her disciples would tremble at the sight of you on the battlefield!"

Rivalen chuckled softly, his head bowed in apparent modesty. "You flatter me, Sceptrana – perhaps one day I will display the depths of my devotion for you to see. It occurs to me that you have not glimpsed as much for yourself, for you have not once attended a service in the Church of Shar."

Briefly Aveil floundered for words, panicked. "I – "

Rivalen's laughter intensified, effectively derailing her train of thought; looking up curiously she caught a glimpse of his ceremonial fangs for the first time, bared now in his mirth, and there appeared to be genuine pleasure in his eyes. "Be at peace – it is no secret to me why you stay away! It is more likely that you would burst into flame if you ever attempted to cross the threshold into the congregation, devoted to Mystra as you are. Suffice it to say you are not welcome in my church!"

Aveil was floored. "Was that a joke, Prince?"

He glanced at her sidelong with the hint of a smile lingering near the corners of his mouth. "Perhaps."

The Sceptrana couldn't help but laugh then, for she had never known the High Priest to find amusement in anything; how odd it seemed that just weeks ago they had never so much as exchanged words and now here they were, laughing amicably together and strolling through the sweeping gardens within the palace grounds. She turned her head to address him and caught sight of another figure just melting out of the low-hanging boughs of a darkcedar tree, one fully arrayed in black cloak and cowl with a pair of piercing silver eyes that she knew all too well; Rivalen glanced over at the sound of her laughter abruptly stopping and followed her gaze to where Fourth Prince Aglarel stood, his eyes darting back and forth between the two of them slightly narrowed but perfectly unreadable. "Hello brother… Sceptrana… Forgive my intrusion. I had thought you would be alone."

These last words were meant for her; Aveil stopped just before him and smiled in welcome, and though of course the ever-surly assassin didn't return the gesture she didn't miss the slight softening of his eyes. "I was sporting with the princess, but Rivalen dropped by to visit." Her own expression clouded with the realization that she had just called the Second Prince by his first name - something she had never done! - but Rivalen seemed quite unconcerned by her slip of familiarity. "We were only talking."

"Yes, only talking," Rivalen echoed agreeably, moving past Aglarel and starting toward the western-facing cobblestoned stairs that would lead him back toward The Circle, calling over his shoulder, "I will leave you now, as I am sure you have business to discuss… Until next time, Sceptrana."

Aglarel marked his older brother's every step with increasing suspicion until long after the High Priest was out of sight before turning back to face Aveil, crossing his arms over his chest with a steely glint in his eye. "What could he be about, I wonder? Attempting to swindle you into abandoning your faith for the worship of Shar? Fool. Surely even he can recognize a lost cause when he sees one."

Aveil actually punched the Fourth Prince in the shoulder then, though of course her strike didn't jar him even a millimeter, and turning back at the sight of Aglarel's mocking smirk she led the way back toward the place where Soleil and her attendants were milling within the trees. "Is it so farfetched? I am an emissary of the High Prince now, after all – perhaps I should convert to his faith."

"You are the Dark Chosen of Mystra," Aglarel pointed out diplomatically, as though the answer should be obvious. "You command great mastery of the arcane as such. It is in no one's best interests that you show any obeisance to Shar – expect Rivalen's, that is, though just why remains to be seen."

"How can you be so suspicious of your own brother's intentions?" Aveil inquired with a laugh, one that only intensified as she glanced back over her shoulder and took note of Aglarel's increasingly sour expression. "He feels indebted to me because I saved his life that day in the ballroom – though of course I did so unintentionally for even I could never have guessed the power imbued within the staff the High Prince gave me, so in a way I am hardly responsible! His gratitude will run its course soon enough I am sure."

"I am _most_ suspicious of my brother's intentions," assured the Fourth Prince gravely, "and if you knew the High Prince's progeny a little better you would be more wary, I am certain. There is an ulterior motive fueling Rivalen's sudden interest in you, make no mistake."

"Well, he wouldn't be the only one," Aveil shot back, suddenly cross. "Why have you come here?"

"Actually, I bring a message from the High Prince… as well as my own counsel for you," Aglarel confessed, and when the sound of his soft footfalls came to a halt in the grass Aveil circled back to face him; unexpectedly he put out a hand and caught her gently by the upper arm, drawing her in so near that she could feel his breath upon her cheeks with each exhale. His proximity made her feel oddly dizzy until he cocked his head to indicate Soleil, who was chatting amiably with Timena just fifty feet away, then he pitched his voice low so that only Aveil would be certain to hear. "He has noticed your newfound camaraderie with the princess, and has asked that you now make her safety your first priority. Soleil can be unpredictable when the urgings of her empathetic link consume her, and has even been known to needlessly endanger herself when she feels she must intervene on another's behalf. With her new husband as well as three other Princes of Shade soon to journey outside the enclave and into war, there is no telling what sort of mischief she might attempt to get up to… The High Prince doesn't wish to distress Soleil if such a thing might be avoided, and he thought that you might be equal to the task since it seems you are well acquainted."

Aveil wondered at her quickened breathing; the Fourth Prince's cool silver eyes were roaming her face, quietly assessing, and she felt a rush of blood tint her cheeks pink in response to his intensity. She mastered herself just in time to avoid further scrutiny. "Of course I will do as the High Prince commands. Protecting the princess would be an honor and a privilege."

"Good," said Aglarel with a sudden smirk, withdrawing his hand from her arm. "I already told the High Prince you would see to it." His expression clouded at some unspoken afterthought as he dropped his hand to his side, but he hadn't yet moved to put any distance between them so Aveil stayed rooted to the spot; he seemed to be fumbling for words, a phenomenon that was most unlike him, until finally he managed to say, "Do be… careful… with this particular task in the days to come. Soleil once allowed a phaerimm to inject an egg into her body in order to spare Escanor such a gruesome fate, and it nearly killed her. If she senses that some danger might befall him, I haven't a clue as to what she might do."

"I will take great care," Aveil assured him with a faint smile.

Aglarel's answering glare was so severe that it wiped all traces of that smile from her face when he growled, "I want your word on this – your word that you will exercise caution. Promise me."

Knowing that Aglarel was opposed to most forms of physical contact Aveil stretched out her right arm and brushed the back of his left hand with her fingertips; predictably he twitched his hand out of her reach purely on impulse, but even then he made no move to distance himself from her, and his gaze was no less piercing than before. She smiled softly up at him a second time, hoping that with that single gesture she might alleviate some of his fears, and at last agreed, "You have my word, Prince."

His face darkened as though something about her words had irked him. "Aglarel." In response to her quizzical look he added, "We have been through much together, you and I, and I wonder if perhaps the time for such formalities has passed. Besides - you call Rivalen by name and I would be surprised to find that he knows you even a fraction so well as I do."

"Aglarel," Aveil corrected, chuckling at the absurdity of his ever-enigmatic requests, "I promise you."

"Good – I will pass along word of your compliance to the High Prince when next he calls for me. In the meantime…" Aglarel backed up a few paces as he prepared to leave, and holding her gaze he flashed her a rare glimpse of his ceremonial fangs as he smirked deviously in farewell. "Stop letting the princess best you – the Aveil Arthien I know is never content with losing, no matter the circumstance."

She spread her arms and bowed deeply as he started away across the lawn, calling, "As you command!" Then straightening up she returned to where Soleil stood waiting patiently and accepted her bow without hesitation, saying, "Shall we have another game?"

When a knock sounded on the door to Lim's private quarters quite late that night, he knew he had won.

"I'm glad you've come," he greeted Twelfth Prince Brennus readily, inviting him in at once and first closing and then locking the door securely behind him. "After studying what Mourn left me, I confess myself rather stymied… I didn't know who else to turn to."

Brennus chose not to respond, his eyes warily sweeping the room's interior for clues as to why Lim had chosen to call for him on this day in particular. Weeks had passed since the drow assassin Mourntrin Auvryndar, an operative of the Jaezred Chaulssin and a personal friend of Lim, had infiltrated Thultanthar for the sole purpose of delivering the Anointed Blade, but Brennus knew for a fact that it had been something else entirely that he had placed in Lim's care for the drow-shade had told him as much. He hadn't the faintest idea why Lim had waited so long to bring it to his attention, but he couldn't imagine any scenario with a pleasing outcome; at Phendrana's prompting Brennus had aided Mourn in locating Lim, for the doppelganger had been convinced of the vital nature of the assassin's mission there and the loremaster knew better than to question Phendrana's judgment. But the stakes were high, higher than anyone could possibly fathom – for Brennus, Lim's success was crucial. If through his involvement the drow-shade actually brought about the death of the Spider Queen, Brennus' usefulness would never again be questioned and his place at the High Prince's side would be nigh untouchable. If Lim failed, or if his actions became known and were deemed traitorous, he would die – and Brennus would be killed right alongside him.

What had he been doing, holed up in this room all this time? What could Mourn possibly have supplied that would force him to seek another's help?

"I want to make one thing perfectly clear," Brennus began in an icy tone, turning to face Lim with a forbidding expression. "As the High Prince's subjects you and I were both bound by law to apprehend the drow who put Hadrhune to death, and our choice to aid him effectively makes us traitors. I have now staked my reputation as well as my life on the success of your plans, so I must warn you – if you consider withholding information or outright lying to me on any occasion I will destroy you utterly, and the High Prince's agenda be damned. I am disgraced, but I am not powerless – you would do well to remember that. If I feel that you are a threat to the ideals that the High Prince holds dear, or that your plans are potentially destructive to his agenda, I am certain that he will support my decision."

"You must do as you will," said Lim agreeably, though inwardly he was seething at the loremaster's declaration – how dare this worm talk down to _him_, the Anointed Blade of the Jaezred Chaulssin? He was no better off in Lim's mind, for as he himself had pointed out his reputation was already in question; privately Lim decided that if the opportunity arose for him to implicate Brennus' treachery while leaving his own standing untouched, he would do so without hesitation. Those who felt they had nothing to lose always made for the most unpredictable allies, and it seemed the youngest son of Telamont was no exception. "But I assure you, you will soon be thanking me for inviting you here. Though I feel I am no nearer to determining the origin of what Mourn has brought me, I feel certain that it is worth your time."

He led the way to his study desk where the ancient and intimidating-looking tome lay, still emanating its subtle yet poignant aura of slumbering magical potential; Brennus' eyes widened noticeably the moment he spotted it and crossing the room in three great strides he overtook Lim and approached the table in a rush, extending one hand and holding it still just inches above the book's surface. It was quiet for the span of just two heartbeats before the Twelfth Prince leveled a questioning look Lim's way, his hand still hovering as though he hoped he might gain a better understanding of the book's capabilities by allowing its strange energies to undulate beneath his fingertips. "Mourn brought this to you?"

"Yes." Lim begrudgingly concluded that divulging a portion of the truth would likely improve his credibility with the loremaster a great deal. "Mourn is Keeper of the Blade; one member of the Jaezred Chaulssin is elected to safeguard the sword in the event that it and the appointed wielder are ever separated. He has been protecting the Anointed Blade since my first death during the Time of Troubles at the hands of my nemesis Drako Falconis."

Only Brennus' reply indicated that he had heard a single word Lim had said; his eyes were fixed almost obsessively upon the book's cover, his fingertips idly tracing the outline of its nearly-tangible aura. "Why did he not bring you the sword? Do you not require the Anointed Blade to put the Spider Queen down?"

"I do. Mourn and the last few members of the Jaezred Chaulssin were waylaid in the Underdark by a small group of wizards of unknown descent and origin – they were imprisoned within the sorcerers' city and tortured, and during that time the sword was taken from him. He was vague on the details as to how he managed to escape, but he stole this book in the confusion and has been carrying it ever since. By his estimation it is far stronger than the sword, but as you can see…" The drow-shade tapered off uncertainly, momentarily ashamed by his lack of progress. Two weeks in his possession and the book still remained as enigmatic and impervious as ever – not a single protective enchantment had been undone as a result of his efforts.

Brennus dropped his hand to his side, a small crease forming between his eyes. "These are among the most complex defensive enchantments I have come across in my studies of the arcane," he admitted. "They are so expertly inter-woven that it is difficult to determine just where one spell ends and the next begins… It was a wizened, learned sorcerer who penned this tome, of that much I am certain. Have you touched it?"

"What?" barked Lim, taken aback.

"I said, have you touched it? There are a number of spells triggered by touch in general and still others that are activated by the flesh-memories they contain of certain races. If you have touched it and it didn't affect you, that is a good sign – it means I may be able to handle it as well."

With a start Lim recalled that he had indeed come into direct contact with the book's cover - shortly after Mourn had presented it to him he had caressed the elder blue dragon hide in amazement, so inexplicably drawn to it that the action had been almost involuntary. If there had been some kind of reaction to his touch, it had escaped his notice at the time. "Yes, I touched it, and Mourn did as well. We were not affected."

"Good. And have you shared this with anyone else?"

"No." Brennus eyed him suspiciously, obviously wondering whether or not this was a true statement, but Lim actually was being truthful for a change. It wasn't even that he was actively working to keep the book's existence a secret, it was more that he had yet to formulate an excuse ironclad enough to explain how he had come into possession of it in the first place. It made him apprehensive enough to think that Brennus knew the truth, and that the only thing keeping him from sharing it with the High Prince was the idea that by keeping quiet he might yet find a way back into the Most High's good graces. There was no doubt in his mind that if the High Prince ever found out that he was in league with the assassin who had put an end to Hadrhune that his own death would be agonizing and messy. The knowledge that his now-sovereign could put him down at any given time was never far from his mind.

With exaggerated care Brennus reached out and laid one hand flat upon the cover of the book; though Lim already knew that no harm would befall the prince simply by coming into direct contact with it he still flinched back as though anticipating a particularly gruesome spell effect to trigger as a result, but Brennus remained quite unharmed. Boldly the Twelfth Prince lifted the tome off the table and turned it over in his hands, his bronze eyes wide and inquisitive as he inspected it from every angle, and seemingly unsatisfied with his quick once-over he tucked it under one arm and heaved a sigh.

Lim had been afraid it would come to this. "You are taking it with you?" There was no questioning his reluctance to let the book out of his sight – what did the Twelfth Prince intend to do with it? Would he deliver it to the High Prince the moment he took his leave, all the while spinning some elaborate alibi that would implicate Lim's involvement in the assassination attempts? Would he somehow find a way to break down the book's menagerie of enchantments and utilize the secrets entombed within its pages? If he did, what would that mean for Lim's personal safety? Surely he could never hope to stand against someone who could wield such a devastating artifact at will?

Brennus ran a hand down his face as though just holding the book taxed him, his expression troubled and weary. "I need time to study this, to determine its origin and how best to proceed with disabling the enchantments that are keeping it closed. Unfortunately I have no way of knowing how long this process will take, and I cannot afford to be seen here – already I have fallen too far to allow myself to be seen associating with you." Lim stiffened, offended, but after a moment he swallowed back his retort and conceded the logic – at this juncture he couldn't afford to argue with his only acquaintance at court, for it could mean the end of him and there was still much he needed to accomplish. "Rest assured, though, that I will keep you informed."

"How do I know that you aren't planning to betray me?" Lim fired at the prince's back, pleased when the Twelfth Prince stopped in his tracks. "What guarantee do I have that you aren't planning to use this to secure your own position and leave me here more vulnerable than before?"

"Because fortunately for you I am just as vulnerable, if not more so," Brennus reminded bitterly, "and it seems that you are my final hope for recovery. I can't afford to betray you, for then I would be truly alone." And then he was gone, and the truth of his confessions rang in Lim's ears.

Breaking the seal that bound the cracked bronze lock proved simpler than Brennus had thought it might, but that gave him little satisfaction – he suspected the lock was a last-minute addition, something that the book's writer had included for show and not to serve any real purpose. There was one unexpected enchantment seeping out of the deep cracks in the metal that in his excitement to remove it he had nearly overlooked, but fortunately he had sensed it before his own eagerness had proven disastrous – there was a potent poison filling the lock's core, ready to spill out if the defensive enchantment was not dealt with first, and he was certain that coming in direct contact with it would have cost him several fingers.

The various spells that kept the book firmly shut even in the absence of the lock were exponentially more challenging, but Brennus had always appreciated a good puzzle and stayed patient and persistent. Careful inspection of the way the enchantments weaved around one another brought to mind a complex labyrinth; each charm he equated to an individual spiraling hallway, and when one glimpsed the full scope of all the hallways and traps they concealed the task seemed daunting and perhaps impossible. Brennus didn't believe in impossible things – he believed in finding a solution through hard work and dedication. So it was with the spells, and the hours became days as his clever mind worked toward a solution that would expose the books' pages to him.

Fascination became obsession, and the obsession began to consume him. At first he came across as simply absentminded, but as he became more detached from the events transpiring in the High Prince's court he was viewed as aloof, and then disinterested, and finally altogether unapproachable. It wasn't long before the shift in his demeanor was obvious, and when it was the questions arose. One too-interested party in particular, his brother Lamorak, proved impossible to satiate no matter what excuse Brennus offered him.

"Has something happened recently?" the Determinist Prime asked him outright one day about a week after Brennus had taken the book from Lim; Brennus' eyes were sunken within his gaunt face and he had nearly fallen asleep during the morning council session, a sure sign that something was out of place. Typically Brennus was devoted and diligent, and even if he wasn't they all knew better than to display such blatant disinterest in the High Prince's agenda.

Brennus had given what he assumed was the favorable answer. "The Army of Shade departs for the Underdark in five days' time. Do you think me daft?"

"No, not that," Lamorak had scoffed with a roll of his eyes. "Has something happened with _you_? You are a shadow of the man you once were, but it is different this time and in my opinion far more destructive. You are preoccupied when you are summoned to court – you say nothing concerning the Most High's cares, either in support of or against. You meet no one's eye, and you shirk your daily responsibilities. The arcanists inquire after your presence often, for it seems you have been neglecting your lectures and lessons at the College. You…" Fear had crept into Lamorak's eyes then, a fear so acute that for a moment its potency struck Brennus almost like a physical blow might. "You are not yourself, brother, and I worry for you. I worry what secrets you are keeping that burden you so – I worry for your health, and for your safety."

For some reason Brennus couldn't explain his brother's concern had ignited a fury inside him. "How touching of you to descend from your lofty perch at our sovereign's side to bestow upon me your concern," he'd responded cuttingly, drawing a certain measure of sadistic pleasure from Lamorak's appropriately crestfallen expression. "Does it help you sleep at night? Does your conscience seem clearer, now that you have shared with me your fake distress? Do you think that justifies all that you have done in stealing Phendrana from me?"

Lamorak had actually winced at that, but his answer had only angered Brennus further. "You know that the High Prince has charged me with seeing to Phendrana's well-being. You know that all that I do, I do at our sovereign's request."

He hadn't even bothered to deny it! To Brennus, this was a sure sign that his suppositions had some truth to them. "I don't need your concern," he'd spat antagonistically. "I have no need of your false gestures of goodwill. Your words are rootless and your promises hollow. You once promised me that you would keep Phendrana safe, but it seems to my eyes that he is worse off than before!"

Since that incident he had suffered no further social calls from Lamorak, but he didn't despair – instead he channeled every ounce of anger and fear and loneliness and desperation into dispelling the book's enchantments one by one. No one could ever understand the acute _need_ he felt to complete this task. Surely if he failed in this he would fail for good and all, and there would be no chance left for him to return to the position of power and prestige he had once so enjoyed. There was a part of him that felt absolutely certain that if he could just unlock the book's secrets, the High Prince would welcome him back into his confidence with open arms.

He knew that he would keep trying, even if it meant the death of him.

It was on account of that reckless stubbornness, he knew, that he was able to unravel each and every one of the book's protective enchantments; then, sweating profusely and trembling with mental fatigue two days later, he watched in disbelief as the book simply fell open in his lap.

If he'd been hoping that dispelling those defensive spells would be his toughest challenge, he'd been proven wrong that day.

It took everything he had not to go thumbing aimlessly through its pages, his mouth slack-jawed with awe and his eyes glazed over with utter amazement. There was no doubt in his mind that what he held in his hands was indeed a spellbook, but the enormity of what he had uncovered was such that it nearly overwhelmed him just being in its presence; the magic he could feel always emanating from its pages weighed on him like a nearly-tangible force, leaving him with the ever-present illusion that the walls of his bedchamber were constantly in danger of closing in around him. Though he perused each and every one of those pages a dozen times over searching for clues he could not even begin to read the text, much less identify the book's origin; the magical residue that had long been entombed upon each page felt utterly foreign to him, and the words were of a language that he had never seen.

"You look a fright," Lim told him remorselessly the next day, shoving his way through the door and striding immediately to where the book lay with a greedy expression upon his face that made Brennus feel unmistakably possessive. "So you managed to open it… I must say, I am impressed." His amber eyes, so like Hadrhune's that it made the Twelfth Prince flinch, perused the loremaster's markedly gaunt frame appraisingly before he added, "Though I cannot help but wonder at the logic of leaving the book in your possession any longer. What has become of you? Not to mention your presence at court is being questioned at every turn."

"Get out." The words slipped past Brennus' bared teeth and came out as barely more than a snarl, hardly distinguishable as distorted with fury as they were; Lim eyed him with surprise but didn't recover his tongue quickly enough to argue. "Perhaps you have forgotten that I am a Prince of Shade – I do not answer to you, and this tome won't be changing hands anytime soon. You have no authority over me, so see yourself out and do not return."

Lim lifted an eyebrow, his expression suggesting that he was still fumbling for words – he had never known the youngest prince to be so unaccommodating before, or so outright rude. "Surely you jest?"

"Look into my eyes," Brennus hissed, "and tell me if my words are a joke."

Perhaps Lim actually took the time to study the loremaster's expression. Perhaps one glance was all it took for him to understand just how bereft, how uncaring, how truly desperate Brennus had become. Regardless, the drow did not need telling twice.

The day after that was the first time Lux had ever knocked on the Twelfth Prince's door and not received a somewhat distracted, if still cordial, response. A remarkably perceptive boy for his age and acutely in tune with his former master's thoughts and emotions, Lux was naturally concerned when one knock became two, and then three, and no movement could be heard from the other side of the door.

"Prince Brennus?" he called timidly, hoping that his worry was not misconstrued as an intrusion or an invasion of privacy; there was no mistaking the loremaster's mood of late, and how truly dark his outlook on life had become. "Are you quite well? I've brought your tea, and a little breakfast."

The silence within the bedchamber might have been deafening; setting the tea tray carefully down beside the door Lux turned the handle, surprised to find the door unlocked, and admitted himself.

He gasped aloud at what he found – the room was in complete disarray. All of the loremaster's fine furniture – the bedclothes, the balcony curtains, the bookshelves – seemed to have been blackened in the aftermath of a fire, though oddly enough the smell of smoke could not be found. Books had been dislodged from their shelves and lay scattered about every square foot of the floor space, some with pages torn from the inside and some with scorch marks identical to those found on the walls; clothes lay shredded upon every surface as though a rabid animal had attacked the prince's chest-of-drawers. Lux thought he imagined the sound of water running from somewhere nearby but then remembered the adjoining washroom with a start and rushed across the bedchamber with his heart in his throat; the taps to the bath were on in full and water was spilling everywhere, for the tub was full to the brim and now covered every inch of the floor. Even the great tree and the delicate fauna the prince had worked so hard to cultivate were no more – the unseen fire had claimed them all, and not even a single flower petal was left to suggest they had ever been there at all.

Upon closer inspection Lux actually found Brennus semi-conscious and groaning beneath the charred study desk, hugging what appeared to be an ancient text to his malnourished chest; with a cry of fear Lux overturned the burnt shell of the desk to reach him, gathering the frail prince in his arms and calling his name earnestly. It wasn't long before Brennus' eyes were open, and though he seemed alert enough there was something completely _wrong_ about his appearance – his eyes were dull and his skin graying, as though he had aged decades in a single night.

Lux pried the book from the loremaster's hands – Brennus protested in a raspy voice and even clawed at him, but the Shadovar boy had little trouble breaking his grip – and threw it across the room, far out of the prince's reach. "Prince Brennus, what has happened here?! Have you been attacked?! Are you hurt?!"

"Give… it… back…" Brennus begged, swiping uselessly at the empty air as though he believed the book to be hovering right before his vacant, disbelieving eyes. "So close… I'm so close…"

"No," Lux told him simply, and though Brennus spat curses at him in response Lux refused to yield. "I do not know what that book is or how you came by such a thing, but I cannot in good conscience allow you to continue to study it. It is _eating away at you_, prince… Can you not see that? What good do you think will come from reading it?"

Brennus let his hand fall back to his side and heaved a sigh, his narrow chest shuddering with effort. "I can't… read it," he corrected stubbornly, "but… Almost…"

"I am your protector, and your friend," Lux insisted, "and I will not continue to sit idly by while you cause yourself such harm. I will destroy the book if need be."

Nothing could have prepared him for the Twelfth Prince's reaction to that threat.

Without warning the entire room shuddered as though a quake was rocking the foundation of the villa; Lux glanced around fearfully, certain that the force of the tremors would bring the walls and ceiling crashing in around him, unaware that the real danger lay at his feet. Brennus knocked the boys' arms away with a single blow and stretched out one hand toward the book, and miraculously the tome responded to his call and appeared at his fingertips, its pages rustling in a sudden gale and the odd symbols carved within flashing with devastating potential. The tremors were now so loud that Lux could hear nothing else and so violent that he had to fight the urge to be terribly sick; Brennus' eyes flashed, unrepentant, and Lux found himself careening out the open door and back into the hallway.

"_Leave me_!" shrieked Brennus, his voice now an unearthly wail that scraped at Lux's eardrums, and when the door slammed shut with enough force to send cracks reverberating out from the doorframe and through the plaster Lux's head drooped onto his chest and his consciousness wavered.

The silence that characterized the Determinist's Guild may have seemed unnatural to most, but Third Prince Lamorak actually preferred it that way. The art of choosing a shade's course through life and deciding how best they might serve the High Prince was highly involved and notably complex, and one that he needed peace and quiet to pursue correctly. It was on account of the guild's serene atmosphere that he was able to hear the first sounds of disturbance from several halls away, and by the time the commotion had interrupted the senior determinist's offices Lamorak was already rounding his desk and halfway to the door.

That was when Lux stumbled in, his eyes rolling as unconsciousness threatened to swallow him with its darkness, his forehead cut and bleeding and his left shoulder obviously dislocated. There were five determinists trailing after him murmuring words of concern and questions and accusations, but the moment Lux's eyes fell upon Lamorak he seemed to gather himself enough to speak.

"Please," he begged, tripping over his own uncertain feet and swooning for the floor, but Lamorak was quick and managed to catch him before he suffered what certainly would have been a painful fall. "Please, you must help me. I don't know what to do."

"Away with you," Lamorak barked at the other determinists, "and shut the door behind you when you go." His associates knew better than to question the authority of a Prince of Shade and they scurried out without a single word to the contrary; Lamorak grasped the boy's chin in an effort to steady his lolling head, certain that somehow he had sustained a concussion and desperate to keep him awake. "Lux, tell me what has happened. Tell me who did this to you."

"I apologize," Lux gasped out. "I didn't know who else to turn to."

"You were right to come to me," assured the Determinist Prime impatiently, "now speak."

Lux's eyes were wide but unfocused; when he opened his mouth to stutter through a reply a gout of blood trickled from his lips and stained the front of his tunic with a shocking spurt of crimson. "Please help him. I fear the worst if he isn't stopped… I fear it is too late already."

Somehow, instinctively, Lamorak knew who the boy was referring to. "Brennus did this to you? On what grounds?"

"It's the book," Lux corrected stubbornly. "Get it away from him… it's going to kill him. I'm sorry… I wasn't strong enough." Then his head drooped forward onto Lamorak's shoulder as consciousness fled from him.

"To me!" Lamorak bellowed, and the doors flew in and rebounded off their hinges as a handful of senior determinists hurried back into the office wing; the Third Prince deposited Lux's prone body into the arms of the nearest one as carefully as haste would allow and shoved past them without explanation, calling orders over his shoulder as he ran. "Fetch my daughter to care for Lux! Send one of the squires to Villa Tareia and evacuate the housekeeping staff, by my command!" And then he shadow walked out of the Determinist's Guild and made with all haste for Villa Tareia, where he instinctively knew he would find his youngest brother.

He stepped out of one of the barely-visible rifts between dimensions that the shades used to travel from the Realm of Shadow to the Material Plane into what he knew to be the heart of Brennus' room, and what he saw took his breath away.

The room was empty.

Had this once been his youngest brother's bedchamber? Lamorak stumbled forward a step, a sob of barely-contained despair upon his lips. The walls were charred and cracked, the ceiling flaking away as embers fell to the floor like rain; it felt almost as though he were standing in the center of a burnt log, watching as the last flakes of bark were incinerated in the nearly-spent inferno. His boots shuffled along through a carpet of ash as he looked for something, anything, that might explain how this catastrophe had occurred, but there was nothing – he was left only with fallout blanketing his shoulders like newly-fallen snow, and a resounding silence whose finality left him feeling frozen with terror.

The toe of his right boot nudged something; dimly Lamorak stopped to retrieve it, brushing the thick layer of ash and still-smoldering embers away so he could get a better look. It was the only thing in the entire room, the only personal effect that had survived the unexplainable blaze – a single book, one whose cover was ancient blue dragon skin and whose pages of vellum and paper-thin crystal were inscribed with strange runes and chiseled words in a foreign tongue. Picking it up the Third Prince leafed through it numbly, half-formed questions chasing one another through his mind – was this Brennus'? How had he come by such an odd book? What spellcraft was penned here that weighed so ponderously upon the mind, filling the soul with such poignant deceit and despair?

As he flipped idly through the last few pages, a single loose sheet of parchment fluttered away and descended upon the blanket of ash upon which he stood; Lamorak bent at the waist automatically and plucked it from the ground with two careful fingers. Bringing it up before his eyes he realized with a start that it was penned in ancient Netherese, a language that he and his kin were all quite fluent in, and as he read on he became more and more confident that the hand that had written it was in fact Brennus'.

The note was short, but it revealed much.

I never should have trusted Lim. I should have known that our agreement would mean the end of me.

I never should have taken the book. I never should have opened it. I never should have read it.

Now the High Prince will never know how dearly I held his agenda, or how desperately I desired to return to his service.

I have only myself to blame for this.

The fingers of Lamorak's other hand turned the last page of the book, and what he saw there stole the breath from his lungs. It was an intricately detailed drawing of his youngest brother, perfectly preserved upon the unyielding surface of the fine vellum page. And as Lamorak studied it with a sinking feeling in his stomach, the bronze eyes inscribed upon the page met his.

And blinked.


	4. Chapter Four - The Lie Eternal

Voltain Darkydle entered the Emerald Atrium feeling strangely buoyant, the same way he had felt since declaring himself Lord Artificer and sharing with the people of Deep Imaskar his plans to harness the ancient volumes of the _Imaskarcana_ and lead their triumphant return back to the surface world. For the most part his self-appointment had been met with great enthusiasm and support; the people of Deep Imaskar, it seemed, shared his dream of returning from the lands their ancestors had been driven from centuries before, and the hardy and determined people were not about to shy away from the hardships they would inevitably endure while striving to realize that dream. The only real opposition he had met thus far was from the usurped Illis Khendarhine, whom Voltain had known from the start would be most unwilling to accept that he had been so suddenly supplanted with grace and dignity – those who enjoyed power as much as Illis did seldom surrendered it without a fight. Even Illis' reluctance had been easy enough to deal with, though; Ebrul and Furyma were fully on board with the drastic political upheaval Voltain had proposed for their people, and through their joint efforts they had little difficulty keeping the High Lord Planner cowed.

His optimism was dashed that evening, fully a week after he had seized the title of Lord Artificer for himself, when he arrived in the council chamber to find Illyria Linovahle among those waiting for him.

"Ah, good evening, Lord Artificer," Furyma greeted him warmly, the serenity reflected in her olive eyes completed unjustified in Voltain's opinion. There was a meddlesome girl-child seated at their council table wearing an expression of eerie innocence that made the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, one who was very obviously not of the Imaskari race, and no one had batted an eye?

Voltain studied Illyria's cherubic little face for the barest hint of an explanation, but her oddly composed expression gave nothing away. What could she possibly be thinking, revealing herself to them? He needed the support of this ruling body in order to enact his plans – surely she realized that? "Explain this."

"Explain?" squeaked Illyria, her too-blue eyes bright with hurt. "You don't remember? You asked me to meet you here. I've already explained everything to your advisors."

For a horrible moment Voltain felt certain that his credibility was about to be suddenly and unceremoniously destroyed, thus abruptly ending his campaign to recover the other volumes of the _Imaskarcana_, but surprisingly Illis spoke up then. "I must admit, Voltain, that at first I sincerely doubted your ability to bring about any kind of substantial change, but the impressive strides you have already taken makes me wonder if I was wrong to question your judgment. To think that you had made such powerful allies on your sojourn into the Underdark's tunnels… It is truly fortunate that you have brought Illyria into our midst. There is no questioning her usefulness to us."

"Yes," Voltain agreed reluctantly, his eyes never leaving Illyria's while he pondered what this might mean. The young gloaming was unpredictable and prone to rash, often volatile mood swings – often he equated her ever-changing temperament to that of a powder keg, and as a result he was often placating her in order to avoid the resulting explosion. She looked serious enough now, her emotions perfectly under control, but what guarantee did he have that he could count on her to remain this even-tempered now that the ruling body was aware of her involvement? "Very fortunate."

"Now Illyria," began Ebrul – Voltain could tell that the Lord Apprehender remained skeptical of Illyria's intentions simply by reading his expression. "You were quite vague as to how you came about your information. If what you say is true, and one of the volumes of the _Imaskarcana_ now resides within Thultanthar, it is only natural that we ask you to supply proof of this claim before we act. The Princes of Shade are powerful, and would make for dangerous adversaries if we wrongfully accused them."

It occurred to Voltain then that he was still standing awkwardly in the doorway leading into the council chamber and he took his seat gratefully, his head spinning unpleasantly. He hadn't taken issue when Illyria had disclosed the location of the _Imaskarcana_ to him a week ago – though the information had brought to rise at least a dozen burning questions he had swallowed them down and simply accepted her counsel, knowing that the more questions he asked the more unwanted, inconsequential details she would likely supply. He had rather hoped to keep this information from Illis, at least – who knew what the High Lord Planner would do if they were able to pinpoint one of the ancient texts? Would he incite the other advisors to mutiny? Would Voltain have a revolt on his hands? Was he yet powerful enough, armed with the Fifth _Imaskarcana_ as he was, to dispatch all three of them and lead the city on his own? He could feel the ageless arcane potential flowing through his veins now as though the magic was just anther part of his genetic makeup, but his study of the book was still incomplete – Illis Khendarhine had been in possession of the Third _Imaskarcana_ since he had taken up the mantle of High Lord Planner, and Voltain had no doubt that he had long since memorized every single dweomer penned upon its fabled pages. If through Illyria's counsel Illis could apprehend a second volume for himself…

"Of course," Illyria was saying agreeably, effectively derailing Voltain's potentially disastrous train of thought; she scooted her chair a little closer to the round table around which the five of them were gathered and laced her fingers together on the smooth wooden surface, appearing far more businesslike than Voltain had ever witnessed. "The drow that Voltain brought back into the city with him when he recovered the Fifth _Imaskarcana_ weren't alone – they were part of a larger scouting party, and when their friends didn't come back they went looking for them. They found another of the books in the same ruins that Voltain did, but there were too many of them so I couldn't try to take it from them by force. They're friends with some drow that's pals with the High Prince now, and for whatever reason they gave it to him – I tracked them to Anauroch, but I couldn't get any further because well, the city flies and all that."

Voltain blinked but made no moves to point out how many lies the little gloaming had told in just thirty seconds. There was a reason behind everything Illyria did – he just had to trust that he would become privy to her motivations in due time. He braced himself for the follow-up questions, certain that someone would test the validity of Illyria's claims.

Predictably, it was Illis. "You tracked them to Anauroch, the once-fertile plain that the Netherese and their life-draining mythallars reduced to a barren wasteland?"

Illyria didn't bat an eyelash, unfazed by the High Lord Planner's scrutiny. "That's the one."

"You… a gloaming? You seem in remarkably good health, considering you followed a group of dark elves from the lightless tunnels of the Underdark where your kind are most comfortable and out into the baking sun that perpetually scorches the surface world." There was a smirk of superiority playing about the corners of Illis' mouth that stoked Voltain's anxiety; if Illyria's story wasn't completely airtight, her ploy would destroy any credibility he had formed with the ruling body of Deep Imaskar. "How could you have survived such an ordeal?"

Illyria leaned back in her chair comfortably and crossed one skinny leg over the other, flexing her luxurious black wings lazily, her expression one of boredom. "That's a funny question. And here I thought you people were supposed to be great wizards or something. You think you're the only ones who know how to cast spells? How do you _think_ I survived out there?" For a moment she allowed her mask of innocence to slip and revealed a true glimpse of the unadulterated, demented purpose she had done so well to hide, and smiling darkly she finished, "The same way I survive down here."

"Indeed," rumbled Ebrul, interceding on Illis' behalf – for the best, Voltain knew, for judging by the High Lord Planner's incensed expression he was hardly maintaining his composure. The Lord Apprehender gazed down at Illyria evenly, cupping his chin with one hand as he considered how best to proceed. "And the drow? I have difficulty believing that Lord Shadow simply invited the lot of them into the last city of the Netherese Imperium."

They were well informed, Voltain admitted begrudgingly, far more informed of the outside world than he could claim to be, but if they had thought that they would stump Illyria with their questions so easily they had severely underestimated her. "Remember how I mentioned that one of the drow is already up there, schmoozing the High Prince?" said Illyria with a sigh of inconvenience, twirling a lock of her dark auburn hair around one finger. "I assume he's the one who let them in – and anyways, he only let one of them in and it was only for a little while. He's a shade who _used_ to be a drow, which I guess means that somehow he got the High Prince to trust him… It'd be easy for him to make a portal for his drow buddy to get in and out of the city, wouldn't it?"

"I suppose it would," Ebrul conceded unhappily, but now the gloaming was staring back at Voltain pointedly and he gathered that she was waiting for him to steer the conversation in a direction more favorable to them.

"Illyria," he began coolly, his mind racing – was there some wild degree of truth to her tale after all? "Who is this drow? The one who is now a shade, advising the High Prince?"

"Oh that's the good part," answered Illyria excitedly, her eyes gleaming with anticipation. "It's Lim Tal'eyve – even you guys must have heard of him, right?"

The name brought a stunned, uneasy silence down upon them all – even Voltain, relatively new to the politics of the world beyond the Great Seal, was familiar with the tale of Lim Tal'eyve. He had rallied a faction of the ancient order called the Jaezred Chaulssin in a failed attempt to overthrow the drow matriarchy and had risen as a lich of unspeakable power to carve for himself a place in the bloody annals of Vaasan history. Their knowledge of him ended there – from all that they knew of him, he had died within Castle Perilous at the hands of a small group of vengeful travelers from Silverymoon.

"Lim Tal'eyve?" echoed Furyma, her forehead creased with concern. "But how can that be? A drow, now in the service of Lord Shadow? Of this development we knew nothing. What could he possibly be planning, to seek an allegiance with the Princes of Shade?"

"I would be far more interested in learning what he promised them in exchange for their cooperation," said Ebrul darkly. "The Princes of Shade form few alliances – after Karsus' Folly wiped out the rest of their race, they learned well enough not to trust just anyone."

It struck Voltain like a bolt of lightning then – what Illyria had been attempting to steer him toward all this time, the information that would form the foundation of his unshakeable credibility in the months to come. He nodded at her once, a silent reassurance that he understood what he was meant to say, and cleared his throat pointedly to regain their attentions. "He promised them that he would annihilate a goddess in their honor, for as we know Lim Tal'eyve was the Anointed Blade and that relic now resides within our city's walls. I took it off one of the drow we apprehended and interrogated."

There was a beat of breathless silence, broken only when Illis managed to say, "What?"

"I can only assume that their initial aim was to deliver the sword to Lim Tal'eyve," Voltain concluded broodingly, "and that they took the _Imaskarcana_ to him so as not to appear as though they had failed in their mission. To gift a person with something so obviously powerful is far more preferable than facing him empty-handed."

"Someone as manipulative and deceitful as Lim Tal'eyve would know better than to barter a deity in exchange for something as flawed and baseless as the essence of shadow," pointed out Illis Khendarhine, his words resonating with great wisdom. "So now we must ask ourselves… If the Princes of Shade are to be presented with Lolth in ethereal chains, what does the drow anticipate in return?"

Voltain rose from his seat, pleased when that action drew all eyes in the room to him; he smoothed the front of his robes and beckoned to Illyria as an afterthought, who slid smoothly from her chair and hastened obediently to his side. "I intend to find out," he assured them, "and I will do so soon. Illyria and I will recover the _Imaskarcana_ from Thultanthar – I appointed myself Lord Artificer to serve the people in whatever way required, and to that I hold. To the three of you I will leave the everyday affairs that typically arise on a case-by-case basis – I must focus all of my efforts on this. Continue operating the city in the usual way and we will have no problems."

"Lord Artificer, wait," called Furyma, an unwilling tremor in her voice, and Voltain looked back curiously to find that the Lady Enactor had abandoned her seat and fixed him with a pleading gaze, her hands clasped beseechingly before her. "You must take care – the Netherese archwizards are not so long-lived as the wizard-kings of ancient Imaskar, that much is true, but they command great sway over the Shadow Weave and Thultanthar is now one of the mightiest empires in Faerun. If the Princes of Shade learn how to decipher the _Imaskarcana_ – "

It wasn't her show of caution that incited him into a round of uncharacteristically raucous laughter, but the mere notion that the descendants of Netheril could have any hope whatsoever of wielding one of the fabled volumes of the _Imaskarcana_; Voltain couldn't help the smirk that spread across his face when he turned back to face her, saying, "And how do you suppose they might manage that? Do not misunderstand me – this city will not be misled by my personal prejudices, for I can assure you that I have none. The simple fact of the matter is that it is _impossible_ for one who has no knowledge of our ancestors' way of magic to even begin to comprehend the focus, the will, and the arcane aptitude necessary to wield one of these books. The Princes of Shade could never hope to unravel even one of the enchantments that protect the books' secrets from the prying eyes of the rest of the world, and even if they somehow managed to accomplish that feat… Well, do you know what happens to those who misuse the _Imaskarcana_?"

The High Prince was gazing into the world window when First Prince Escanor happened upon him, a silent, unmoving sentinel as he watched Clariburnus and Rapha give instructions to their separate factions of the Army of Shade. It was heartening to see how harmoniously the two princes were getting on lately – Clariburnus was quite likeable but Rapha was capricious in all things, and Escanor knew well enough how crucial the continued cooperation of the High Prince's sons would be during this operation. The Army of Shade was comprised of men who were strong of arm and spirit, but they would need unwavering leadership in order to succeed. Escanor might have questioned his sovereign's decision to include Rapha in the war against Menzoberranzan, but his confidence in Rapha's involvement was now growing daily.

"Everything is ready?" asked Telamont broodingly, after several long minutes of thoughtful silence.

"Yes, Most High. We are well versed in our roles in the upcoming siege, and the battalions we command know their place at our sides. Our preparations are complete – we are ready to march at a single word from you."

They watched side-by-side as within the world window Clariburnus spoke to the crowd of entranced warriors, stoking their battle lust with what was undoubtedly an impassioned speech detailing how the drow race had disrespected them; before he had even finished it seemed that the army raised their voices in exultation, hefting spears in the air and banging swords upon shields as they howled their agreement. Telamont watched it all with a combination of satisfaction and melancholy upon his face, and it took Escanor several moments of deliberation before he could guess why.

"You have my deepest sympathies, Most High One. I know that Hadrhune was dear to you, despite his transgressions in the recent past. I confess that I was never fond of him, but there is no denying how useful he was to you. He served you well in the years he lived among us, and the loss has affected us all. It is my hope that with each black elf that falls to my blade I will continue to honor his memory."

Telamont turned away from the world window and offered his eldest son a smile that was mostly a grimace, dropping one hand appreciatively down upon Escanor's shoulder – no easy feat, as the First Prince stood taller than he. "Well said, my son," he congratulated solemnly. "All that you say is true – Hadrhune did serve us well, far better than could be expected from someone of non-Netherese ancestry. His loss pains me greatly, but I cannot help but feel grateful to him in the end – through his courageous act of selfless sacrifice he saved Soleil from meeting such an awful end. I am certain in his last moments that he weighed the choice carefully and found dying in her place was far preferable." They put the world window at their backs and meandered companionably in the direction of the High Prince's throne, but the mention of his daughter-in-law seemed to have brought another troubling issue to the forefront of his mind. "I have arranged for the Sceptrana to keep watch over Soleil while you are away – Aglarel has assured me that she will serve the princess diligently. I promise you – she will be well cared for in your absence."

"I do not doubt it," agreed Escanor with a fond smile. "I am at a loss to say what spawned the friendship between them, but Soleil delights in Aveil's presence here – I think her place in our primarily patriarchal society was lonely for her at times, and she has longed for a female companion." Escanor paused for a moment, weighing his own words carefully before adding, "It seems that the Sceptrana has become something of a permanent fixture in our city."

"Are you opposed to her presence here?" inquired the High Prince, his platinum eyes coolly assessing, but Escanor shook his head at once.

"I was at one time, but no longer – the obvious advantages we entertain by keeping her in our midst would far outweigh my reservations, if I still harbored any. No one can question that she is devoted to the advancement of Thultanthar, and she was instrumental in staving off the assassination attempts; from what I understand she interfered on Aglarel's behalf, and Rivalen is adamant that were it not for her timely intervention he would never have found the strength to save those who had fallen to the daylight spell on the night of the bridal masquerade. We are fortunate to count the Sceptrana as one of our allies."

The High Prince seemed to be mulling over some related matter in his mind – perhaps deciding whether or not to share it? – before confessing reluctantly, "I can't help but feel that one day soon she will no longer be merely an ally of the Princes of Shade, but a part of our family."

Escanor stopped in his tracks, his copper eyes shining from within the protective veil of shadows that engulfed his entire body wide with surprise. "Truly?"

"By her own birthright she is nobility already," Telamont reminded with an indulgent little chuckle. "She may have abandoned her crown when she fled the Spine of the World, but she has only to return and lay claim to it to be named Princess of the Frostfell. Once she does – and I have no doubt that she is even now considering such a move – she will be an ideal candidate for one of your younger brothers to marry. We would do well to cultivate such a union - Thultanthar is feared by many, and hated by many more. The more women of noble birth from foreign nations we can sway to our cause, the better for us all – we will need all the alliances we can muster if our dreams of conquest are ever to become a reality."

"The Sceptrana's hand would fall to Rivalen," Escanor reminded, a hint of skepticism in his tone. "Though he is next in the line of succession behind Soleil and me, I am not certain theirs would be a strong match… Their faiths are conflicting, and I fear the marriage would be fraught with discord."

"We will see how events play out," said Telamont enigmatically, "but I am not certain Rivalen will be the Sceptrana's only suitor, in the end."

Escanor opened his mouth to reply, his expression one of utter perplexity, but whatever his inquiry he didn't get the opportunity to voice it; one of the many shadows that formed a perimeter about the High Prince's audience hall was solidifying and taking a definite shape, and as they watched Third Prince Lamorak materialized in their midst and stumbled toward them. One look at his stricken face was all it took for them to understand that he brought with him grave news; his face was ashen with fright and his eyes were impossibly wide, as though he had glimpsed horrors he now wished he could forget. The High Prince moved to meet him with outstretched arms and Lamorak all but flew to him, letting their sovereign envelope him in his nurturing embrace as the Determinist Prime trembled in his arms and cried.

"Tell me what has happened that has caused you such distress," Telamont bade him earnestly, pushing his son back to arms' length when he could no longer bear such unexplained silence. "This emotional outburst is most unlike you, Lamorak, and I confess it has me quite unsettled."

Escanor watched as wordlessly Lamorak produced a single sheaf of ordinary parchment and offered it to their sovereign to read; Telamont took it without hesitation, his eyes flying across the page as he sought his answers. When he had finished he lowered the page a fraction, his eyes full of unanswered questions locking with Lamorak's over its topmost edge. "Explain this," he begged, his voice possessed of a similar fear that set Escanor's nerves on edge, and from within a fold of his robes Lamorak produced what appeared to be a book.

"I am not sure…" He stammered, his voice always in danger of breaking as he neared the point of hysteria. "I cannot be certain, but… I think that…"

Escanor looked to the High Prince with a raised eyebrow, wondering if their sovereign had made any sense of Lamorak's distressed ramblings, and felt a horror such as he had never known seize his shadow orb in its merciless clutches.

The Most High's eyes were upon the book, wide and vacant as though he had seen a ghost, and as the First Prince watched the plentiful shadows surrounding his body dissolved into clear vapor; he made no move to take the tome out of Lamorak's hands, though it was clear by Lamorak's expression that he would have given anything to be rid of it.

"How did you come by this abomination?" asked Telamont at last, his voice barely more than a whisper.

"I can assure you," Lamorak choked out, "that I am in no way responsible for its arrival into our midst." He lurched another step forward, effectively forcing the book into their sovereign's arms, and Escanor was prepared to berate him for his audacity when Lamorak added fervently, "The last page, Most High One - please, I beg of you, look at the last page!"

"What are you about?" Escanor demanded hotly, but his brother ignored him in favor of watching fearfully as the High Prince obediently rifled through the book's contents – odd symbols and unknown characters chiseled upon pages of vellum and paper-thin crystal – to the final entry; there followed an awful moment that was frozen in time as they all three gazed down upon the image of Twelfth Prince Brennus, perfectly preserved and staring sorrowfully up at them from within the page, shattered only when Most High Telamont clutched the tome to his chest and wailed in despair as he sank down to his knees upon the floor.

"_My son!_" he cried, his voice magically resonating throughout the spacious confines of the audience hall and tearing their delicate eardrums with its volume. "What have I done?! Through my long-lived anger I drove him to this point of desperation! By rescinding my love I forced him to pursue this ill-advised course! My son is lost to me… _MY SON!"_

"The fault is not yours," Lamorak insisted brokenly, and shifting his gaze Escanor watched as for the first time his brother shed tears of black shadowblood from his blazing silver eyes. "Brennus loved you, Most High One. He would have done anything to remind you."

"And in my blindness I would never have taken notice," Telamont lamented, his own dark tears dripping onto the book's cover and running in rivulets to drop to the floor. "May the Night Mother forgive me… I have all but killed my own child. For as long as I live I will never forgive myself this atrocity." Then from where he lay collapsed upon the ground he looked up at Lamorak, an inconsolable rage burning in the depths of his eyes, and growled, "Summon the rest of your brothers, as well as Soleil and Aveil and Phendrana – I want them all present for this."

Lamorak blinked, the last of his tears running the length of his cheek as sadness gave way to confusion. "For what, Most High One?"

"Escanor," Telamont continued, and his voice was now so constricted with anger that the words were barely distinguishable. "Apprehend the drow and bring him to me. He has much to answer for."

Voltain closed the book reverently after approximately six hours of entranced study, the action immediately extinguishing the thousands of miniscule iridescent runes that had materialized in the air and taken to dancing about the room as he read. He had read too long; his eyes stung and watered when he blinked them, and his head swam as though filled to bursting with the knowledge he had just accrued. The arcane codex at his fingertips seemed limitless in its chronicles – it was difficult for him to fathom that this was but one of seven volumes, and that more of this incredible knowledge was still lost out there waiting to be found.

Abandoning his desk he stumbled unsteadily through his apartment, his shuffling feet uncertain in the near-darkness; the hour was quite late, and the only light emanated from the faerzress that lined the boundaries of the cavern or otherwise served as décor throughout city. He needed water, and he needed to think – but most of all there remained yet one question that had been nipping at the edges of his focus for hours, ever since the most recent council session had adjourned. Just as he suspected Illyria was still haunting the lounge, occupying her familiar perch on the windowsill, and rather than waste either of their time with empty salutations or small talk he simply stepped right up to her side and asked.

"You didn't follow the drow from the Underdark to Anauroch. You didn't witness these accounts firsthand. Someone told you of Lim Tal'eyve's arrival in Thultanthar, someone perhaps who was _in_ Thultanthar when these events transpired. Illyria… who do you know that lives within the City of Shade?"

Illyria tossed her thick curtain of auburn hair playfully over her shoulder as she craned her slender neck to look him in the eye, and at first Voltain couldn't determine just what emotions were contained within the complexity of her expression. There was something thoughtful about the way her eyes reflected the cerulean faerzress just outside his open window and something melancholy lingering in the shape of her lips – for Voltain, who had always viewed the meddlesome little gloaming as little more than an annoying little girl, this was a surprise. Never had he know her to display any emotion that wasn't mischievousness or greed or spite, and had always assumed she was incapable of them. He opened his mouth at once to question her further, for certainly there was far more to his question than he had originally guessed there might be, but quick as a flash Illyria had mastered herself and molded her face into the mask of childish arrogance and superiority with which he was so familiar.

"Oh, Volt, honey… I've got friends in places you can't even imagine," she told him with a girlish little cackle, and he found himself so chilled by her answer that he resolved to ask her no more questions that night.

Lamorak refused to answer any of Aveil's questions, but one look at him was all she needed to understand that pressing him for information would be foolish indeed; he was so distraught that his breath hitched in places as he informed her of the High Prince's summons, breaking up his meager explanation into an odd, unsettling cadence. She knew she was pushing her luck, but Aveil couldn't help taking a brief detour before making her way to the palace – to Villa Hara, where Fourth Prince Aglarel resided when he wasn't skulking about the Assassin's Guild. She wasn't bold enough to shadow-walk directly into his private quarters – was anyone, she wondered offhandedly? – so she instead made her destination the foyer of his residence, where she was immediately hailed by a few members of his housekeeping staff; they were familiar enough with her presence, and gave her no trouble when she set off into the halls in search of him.

Aglarel answered the door to his bedchamber right away when she knocked; he was wrestling into the cloak and cowl the High Prince had gifted him with when he had been transformed into a shade long ago, and his face was harried and distracted when he greeted her. "The summons?" he asked in lieu of any niceties, and when she nodded once his face turned grave. "You might as well come along with me, then… Lamorak was here only a moment ago, and I'm sure he told me as little as he told you."

They entered the Shadow Realm together and moved swiftly, their every move synchronous with one another; Aglarel set a pace that was very near a run, and Aveil's robes billowed out behind her as she hastened to keep up. "I don't suppose you have any idea what this is about?"

"I haven't, but I can't help but fear the worst." Aveil wondered at the Fourth Prince's tone, which was more deeply troubled than she had ever heard it; his eyes were focused on the limitless black void ahead, scouring the interweaving shadows for their destination with unerring focus. "Among my brothers Lamorak is something of a prodigy when it comes to composure – it is one of the many reasons why the High Prince considered him the best candidate to head the Determinist's Guild, where a cool and collected head is paramount to making such life-altering decisions. Yet when he stood before me just now, he was a man undone… In all my years I have never seen him so perturbed."

"Do you think the other princes are being summoned?" Aveil asked tremulously – if it was so, the news must be dire indeed.

"Lamorak made it quite clear that my presence was expected immediately, with no exceptions. If you have also been summoned, the High Prince is likely declaring an emergency council session. My brothers will be abandoning their duties for this, something our sovereign does not command lightly. There can be no doubting the importance of this meeting." Aglarel stopped in his tracks then, his eyes fixed upon a barely-visible rift between the dimensions their kind could occupy at will, and finished, "We are here."

They passed through the tear in dimensional fabric side by side, and admitted themselves to a frightful sight.

Most of the Shadow Council had already gathered within the High Prince's audience hall – as they watched Lamorak stepped back into the Material Plane about five paces to their left, with a frantic Phendrana in tow – and those who had were beside themselves; twin princes Mattick and Vattick were sobbing into one another's shoulders, streaks of viscous black shadowblood tears streaming down their faces, as beside them a downtrodden Clariburnus hung his head and alternately patted them consolingly on their backs. For whatever reason Rivalen, Melegaunt, and Rapha were all screaming expletives at one another, a very rare occurrence in any given situation, but their voices were so harsh and garbled in their rage that Aveil couldn't make out a single word; Dethud was standing at Yder's side, one hand laid heavily upon the latter's shoulder in reassurance as he read something from a sheaf of plain parchment, and as Aveil looked on the Sixth Prince suddenly dissolved into bitter tears that no words from Dethud could possibly stem. The High Prince seemed not to notice the commotion around him; instead he stood a little apart from the rest, an open book pressed tightly to his chest and his lips moving rapidly as if in prayer.

"What in the Nine Hells?" murmured Aglarel incredulously beneath his breath, and though his voice was barely more than a whisper Aveil didn't miss the uneasiness in his tone.

Soleil appeared in their midst then, her face pink with emotion and her eyes red and swollen with unshed tears; she strode over to where the High Prince stood with her hands clenched into fists that trembled violently at her sides, and when he opened his eyes to gaze sadly down at her she mustered all of the fury contained within her slender body and cried, "_Where is he_?!"

"Escanor is bringing him, dear one," the High Prince told her, exhaustion in his voice. "They will be here any moment now."

"_I will kill him!_" shrieked the princess in a voice so shrill that it brought a resounding silence down upon them all. "_I will kill him with my bare hands for this!_"

"It's alright." The High Prince's attempts to soothe his new daughter-in-law made Aveil want to weep; his voice was breaking, his eyes twin pools of ancient sadness. As she watched he extended an arm out toward her, saying, "Come stand here with me, child. I cannot bear to see you so distressed."

Soleil hesitated for a moment longer, seemingly unwilling to relinquish the anger that fueled her motivations, but gave in to the sorrow in their sovereign's eyes; she ran to him and embraced him around the middle, and it was there that her tears spilled over.

"What – " Aveil demanded, lurching a step forward in her desire for answers, but the shadows in the center of the room were stirring, heralding yet another arrival, and Aglarel seized her by the arm and wisely dragged her back to his side.

The shadows solidified into a pair of figures, that of Prince Escanor wearing an expression of unrepentant rage and Lim Tal'eyve barely standing at his side; at first glance it seemed as though his bottom lip was cut and bleeding, droplets of black shadowblood dribbling down his chin and staining the high collar of his tunic, but the moment their boots touched the floor Escanor lashed out with a punch to the back of his head that laid him low. Aveil flinched in surprise – she was no friend of Lim's, but she had never known the High Prince's eldest son to be prone to such acts of unprovoked violence – and even Aglarel's jaw dropped a little at the ferocity of his eldest brother's blow. Lim moaned softly from where he had fallen, his arms curled defensively around his head as though he anticipated more blows, but the High Prince barked a rebuke at Escanor and the First Prince wisely returned to his side, where he took his new bride into his arms and cradled her against his chest. The High Prince's eyes shifted to Aglarel and Aveil, who alone amongst the entire congregation were not wearing expressions of despair or anger, and when he beckoned them to come closer they did so obediently and without hesitation.

"Only you two have not been told, and for that I sincerely apologize," said the Most High grievously, and reluctantly he drew the book away from his chest and held it out for Aglarel to take. "Given the sacrifices you have both made in the name of this realm's safety and security, you should have been the first to know. You were right all along, and for my part allow me to say that I will never again question your judgment, or your instincts."

"I don't understand," Aveil admitted perplexedly, but the High Prince passed her the note that was written on the otherwise plain sheaf of parchment then and her questions all but evaporated.

"Trapped," said Aglarel after a moment's contemplation, his voice oddly constricted with emotion. "Within a single page of the book."

"Unfortunately, yes." For just a moment it seemed to Aveil's eyes that their sovereign looked every one of his three thousand years of age, so downtrodden and bleak was his facial expression. "Not dead, perhaps, but in as sorry a state as any Prince of Shade has ever found himself. The pages of the _Imaskarcana_ are littered with the entombed souls of lesser wizards who overestimated their knowledge of the arcane and paid the ultimate price – it wasn't greed that drove Brennus to this fate, but desperation. In his search for a means to overcome his dishonor he fell prey to this book, and if there is a means of escape it is unknown even to me… As much as it grieves me to admit it, Brennus is lost to us."

Aglarel was gazing down at the perfect likeness of his youngest brother etched upon the final page of the book with a pinched quality lingering near his eyes; the urge to take his hand nearly overwhelmed Aveil then, but somehow she refrained from doing so. "He should have known better," said the Fourth Prince gruffly, "but I suppose he was too young to truly understand what he was dealing with."

Finally Aveil could contain her questions no longer. "You know what this is?"

"I know of it," Aglarel explained, closing the book with a very noticeable wince and running his hand the length of its cover almost reverently. "This is one of the volumes of the _Imaskarcana_, though apart from its name and its origin our civilization knows almost nothing. The texts are older than the Most High himself, and we had thought the wizard-kings who penned them to be long extinct."

"But how did Lim come into possession of such a thing?" asked Aveil, brandishing the parchment in front of her hotly. "And why would he have offered it to Brennus?"

The High Prince accepted the book back from Aglarel and immediately tucked it back into his chest, almost as a reflex action; the Fourth Prince gritted his teeth and worked hard to sublimate the sudden rush of emotions that the truth of the situation had swamped him with, and couldn't look Aveil in the eye when he replied. "I can only speculate, but I assume that he had no way to pinpoint the books' origin or exactly what it was capable of, and preyed upon Brennus' obvious desperation to get those answers in his stead. Brennus would have been more than willing to investigate the book on his own… I imagine he was entertaining visions of his own triumphant return after deciphering the book's secrets. There is no question that if he was able to do so, the High Prince would welcome him back into the fold with open arms."

"You speak the truth," agreed the High Prince readily, "but this is beyond poor Brennus, as you can see… It may be beyond us all. Even you, Sceptrana, the authority on the arcane arts here, would be hard pressed to contend with the magic contained within these pages."

Aveil could feel the foreign enchantments emanating from each page and couldn't help but agree; just being in close proximity to such obviously cataclysmic magic sent a shudder of dread coursing down her spine. "That does not explain how Lim came across it," she pointed out, hoping to distract her powerful masters from her moment of weakness, but it was Escanor who answered.

"We will have our answers shortly," the First Prince announced, tightening his arms reflexively around Soleil. "He is coming to."

Lim's arms came down from where they had been wrapped around his head and he pushed weakly against the ground, rolling over unceremoniously onto his back; his eyes rolled as though consciousness was threatening to claim him yet again, but with a few rapid blinks of his eyes and a vigorous shake or two of his head he managed to battle it back. It was clear in the vacancy of his expression that he wasn't quite sure where he was, and supporting himself on trembling arms he almost managed to push himself into a sitting position.

He would have made it were it not for Aglarel.

"Holy Father," muttered the Fourth Prince darkly, his normally piercing silver eyes tinged with flecks of livid crimson, "with your permission."

"Control, my son," Telamont cautioned in an undertone that perhaps he thought Aveil wouldn't hear, and then Aglarel sank into a predator's crouch and stalked into the center of the room; Lim had half a second to peer fearfully into the wrathful face of his doom before Aglarel completed his approach and planted one foot squarely in the center of the drow-shade's chest, in effect knocking the oxygen from his lungs and pinning him fast to the floor.

Up until that point Phendrana's eyes had been locked upon what little of the cover of the _Imaskarcana_ that he could see, as obscured as it was by the High Prince's arms, but the unpleasant sound of Lim's head cracking against the marble underfoot jolted him back to the present; the awful crimson radiating from Aglarel's irises struck terror into the doppelganger's heart and reflexively he caught Lamorak, who had not left his side since their arrival, at the elbow with one hand.

"Courage, Phendrana," Lamorak reminded in a soft undertone, his words barely a whisper in the suddenly silent chamber. "Remember that Lim has committed an unforgivable crime, and now rightly deserves whatever punishment the High Prince might design."

Oddly, though the Third Prince was standing at his shoulder, Phendrana didn't hear a single word of his reassurance; for the first time in weeks he could hear his own voice resonating throughout every last crevice of his conscious mind, louder and more tormented than even the one that had slowly been whittling away at his sanity. And as his own voice lifted in a scream that no one else could hear miraculously that second voice abruptly cut off and seemed to tremble in fear of what was to come, for though he had known the pain of death Hadrhune knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that he had never once experienced the kind of heart-shattering agony that Phendrana was now subject to. That may have been the first time that Hadrhune questioned whether part of him was still alive somehow, for though he no longer had a body he was still able to _feel_ somehow and knew that the emotion he was now experiencing was one that was altogether foreign to him.

It was pity.

_Why won't they stop_?! Phendrana shrieked, and the suffocating shadows that plagued his mind like a disease rolled back to reveal Hadrhune, cowering in the center of the doppelganger's subconscious, desperate for the din to cease before it drove him insane. _Why can't they see that the drow's punishment means NOTHING?! Brennus is GONE FOREVER, yet they waste their time with their petty designs of revenge and this meaningless display of force?! Who does this benefit?! HOW WILL THIS BRING HIM BACK?!_

And against all logic or reason the psyche of the seneschal Hadrhune fled to a lightless, little-used corner of the doppelganger's unconscious mind and hid himself away there, praying that if he made himself as unassuming as possible he might escape the worst of Phendrana's desolation. For a brief moment Phendrana felt a tendril of panic threaten to overwhelm him, for he had nearly forgotten what it felt like to be in possession of a mind that he alone controlled, but then he clenched the hand not locked around Lamorak's elbow into a fist around the warm mithril band that adorned his ring finger and accepted into himself its quiet courage and serenity. Brennus had fought to give him this chance to live with his mind uninhibited by his body's feeble mortal limitations – he would be damned if he wasted that now.

Aglarel bent at the waist and seized Lim by the collar of his tunic, and dragging him back into a sitting position he laid him low again with a devastating punch to the face; Phendrana thought he heard the crack of bone – the drow's nose? – before he dropped to the floor again, his hands floating feebly in the air before him in a pitiful attempt to defend himself. Aglarel stood straight for a moment and threw back his head, breathing deeply through his nose, and it seemed to Phendrana that perhaps the manic crimson glint in his eyes dimmed somewhat.

What was that light, he wondered? A trick of the flames in the braziers near the High Prince's throne? Or something else?

"Now you will tell me everything," Aglarel growled, his voice barely distinguishable in its animalistic ferocity as he gripped the drow by the throat and hoisted him into a sitting position. "_Everything_."

Lim opened his eyes a fraction, twin slits of hard amber, and answered the Fourth Prince's demand with an ill-advised chuckle that was somehow devoid of all mirth. "I am not Zek Vandree," he reminded, and his blatant reference to the drow killer whose failed assassination attempt against Aglarel had landed him at the mercy of the prince's merciless interrogation tactics brought Aglarel's ceremonial fangs to bear. "You cannot manhandle me into giving you the answers you require. What proof do you have that I am guilty of what you accuse me of? The prince's letter, yes, but did your precious Brennus even write that? Could it not be a trick of the book meant to throw you off track?"

"Proof?" echoed Aglarel incredulously, and releasing Lim he threw his head back and laughed long and loud, the sound of his cold laughter raising a host of goosebumps up and down the doppelganger's arms. "You dare to come before us, an outsider and a traitor to the Princes of Shade, and demand that we present you with _proof_ of your crimes?! Look around you, drow – you have no advocates for your interests here! You are surrounded by those most faithful to the High Prince of Thultanthar – Lord Shadow, oldest and strongest of our great race, whose _son_ is now lost to him on account of your trickery! And you have the audacity to ask for _PROOF?!_" From within a hidden fold of his cloak Aglarel produced his favored assassin's dagger, one with a deadly life-stealing property that invigorated him with his adversary's own life energy, and held it before Lim's eyes long enough for him to recognize the price he would soon pay for his bold words. "There is no justice in this chamber for you, drow! This council is devoid now of fairness and democracy! We have only hatred for you, and for whatever fell plans you put into motion that stole Brennus from us –that hatred holds no room for _proof_!"

What followed was carnage that surely would have sickened Phendrana, but the Fourth Prince's movements were so quick and so precise that he never actually glimpsed a single blow – it was over in only a handful of confusing seconds, brought to a sudden halt when the High Prince bellowed Aglarel's name like a warning. Phendrana had to believe that it was only the sound of their sovereign's voice that brought Aglarel out of his bloodlust and back to his senses, for when he turned his back on the torn and bloody body that had moments ago been Lim Tal'eyve he was shaking head to foot with barely-sublimated rage.

Aveil passed him as she trod forward, her every footfall as soundless as a leaf falling from a tree, and paused briefly to squeeze his hand, saying, "You did well – his wounds will heal."

"You will do better," Phendrana thought he heard the Fourth Prince reply through gritted teeth, and then the diminutive Sceptrana was summoning her dreaded black staff, Stygian Invidia, into her petite hands as she stood at the feet of the shuddering drow.

Oddly Phendrana recalled then that Aveil was suddenly facing the man who had once torn her own unborn child from her womb and wondered at the High Prince's judgment in allowing her to face him.

"You are a shade," said Aveil bluntly, and when the azure stone set in the head of her scepter blazed white Phendrana watched, morbidly mesmerized, as the drow's awful half-healed injuries sprouted thick veins of ice that crept over his skin like dozens of silent killers. "I cannot speak for the Princes of Shade, whose wisdom far exceeds my own, but for my part I would much rather your wounds didn't heal so quickly. You have broken their hearts – now I will break your body, as much as they will allow." The ice in Lim's wounds thickened then, spearing the already-torn flesh with icicles sharp as knives, and beside him Phendrana thought he felt Lamorak flinch.

For a moment, it seemed, Lim's screams of agony were louder even than Phendrana's – the doppelganger wondered if he should be disturbed by the pride those cries incited in the depths of Aglarel's eyes.

Somehow Aveil seemed perfectly at ease as she knelt down beside Lim's thrashing head, tracing the fingertips of one hand almost soothingly the length of his cheek; her lips pursed together as she shushed him, and the magically-conjured ice daggers slowly began to melt and alleviate the pain of the drow's wounds. Gradually his cries softened into moans, and it was then that Aveil's voice could be heard – softer, gentler, more feminine than before. "You needn't suffer all this pain," she cooed, her hand lingering upon his cheek and gingerly wiping the unwilling tears he shed. "Your cooperation is all we ask – a few answers and you can rest. Does that sound so awful?" She waited the duration of three heartbeats, during which Lim said nothing in agreement or denial, so she chose to accept his silence as cooperation and started with her inquiries. "Tell me – how did you come by the book?"

Lim didn't answer right away – his chest still heaved with exertion, and his breath came in shallow, labored gasps. The last of the icicle daggers melted away.

"Who gave it to you?" Aveil pressed, a hint of impatience creeping into her once-motherly tone. "For what purpose?"

Slowly and painstakingly Lim turned his head, finding the strength to open his eyes as the last of his grievous wounds knitted itself seamlessly together, and gasped out, "High Prince, with all due respect… If you think that someone of my stature will answer to this common whore, you've got another thing coming."

Aveil leapt back to her feet and hefted her staff, retribution flashing in her stunning violet eyes; both Aglarel and Rivalen stalked a step forward with vengeance in their eyes, but it was Lamorak, the silent sentinel of strength standing vigilantly at Phendrana's side, who spoke up on the Sceptrana's behalf.

"Enough," said the Determinist Prime, and patting the doppelganger's hand reassuringly he stepped into the center of the loose circle they had formed around the fallen drow and gently steered the seething Aveil away from him. "It is clear that we cannot use brute force to loosen this one's tongue – he was once the prisoner of the Spider Queen, after all. Someone like him has learned well enough how to keep from breaking under physical torture by now, haven't you Lim? I commend you – the tactics that Aglarel uses are not easy to withstand, and the Sceptrana's punishment was inspired. But you aren't afraid of pain. It is something else that you fear."

While Lim was struggling to climb into a sitting position, his amber eyes dull with fatigue and his every movement sluggish with effort, Lamorak knelt down at his side and laid one hand with exacting pressure upon the drow-shade's chest; abruptly Lim's ministrations ceased as though his limbs had been petrified, though it was apparent in the way that panic crept back into his eyes that he had not stopped struggling of his own accord. The Determinist Prime muttered an incantation so soft in volume that even Phendrana could not hear, and as he watched with dawning realization the prince's hand dissolved into something far less corporeal than flesh – it appeared as vapor, though it seemed to have retained its overall shape. Lim's eyes widened in fearful anticipation of what was to come, but with his body magically frozen he could not even form a word of protest with his lips - he could only watch helplessly as Lamorak's vaporized fingertips sank an inch into his flesh, probing at what lay beneath his skin.

"You aren't afraid of pain," Lamorak said again, his voice taking on the clinical tone of voice he tended to use when he was presented with an experiment or an intellectual pursuit of some kind; oddly this tone, which suggested he viewed Lim as something less than a living being and more like a curious specimen, made Phendrana feel even more uneasy than before. "You've felt pain in your life – _lives_, rather, for this is your third attempt at mortality, isn't it? And someone with your determination doesn't feel pain like the average mortal by now – no, you're somewhat deadened to it, and you know your limits, and you know what you can endure perhaps better than any of us. So I won't waste your time by threatening you with pain, for I know that such a threat is a hollow one to you. I have no need to torture you – no offense to Aglarel, but the art of torture and its appeal is utterly lost on me. Then again, I can't say that I'm possessed of Aglarel's aptitude for patience. I don't want to savor your screams of agony – I only want to end your life for what you've done to my brother, to me and to my family. For I know that what you truly fear is death."

There was something in Lim's eyes that suggested perhaps he wasn't taking the Third Prince's words seriously but Lamorak, hardly bothered by this silent act of defiance, pressed his fingertips down another half-inch and effectively stole the skepticism from the drow's eyes. "I know what you're thinking – you believe I won't do what I have promised, that I wouldn't possibly defy my sovereign and end your miserable existence. But you can never know the agony you have caused him in bringing about Brennus' fate, and that is something that I am not prepared to abide. And look around you – have you heard a single word of protest against my actions? You think we will keep you alive, all on account of your audacious vow to somehow deliver us the Spider Queen? Allow me to remind you just how expendable you are." Lamorak's translucent hand dipped down into the drow's chest cavity – there followed a beat of silence during which Phendrana was certain he was about to be violently sick – and then with agonizing slowness he began to extract the appendage, his eyes always on Lim's, his expression perfectly neutral and utterly composed.

"The High Prince is nearer to divinity than any other pseudo-mortal creature that now walks this earth," Lamorak reminded tonelessly, painstakingly dragging his hand out of Lim's chest inch by excruciating inch. "Rest assured that if he truly desired the death of Lolth, he would have little difficulty accomplishing such a task on his own. I bid you farewell now, drow. I cannot say any of us will mourn your passing."

Something that was not part of the prince's inconsistent, vapor-like appendage breached the surface of Lim's chest then, and Phendrana caught a brief glimpse of what Lamorak held in his hand – it was a roiling mass of rapidly-undulating shadow, black as night and dreadful as every one of Phendrana's darkest nightmares combined, barely the size of a baseball with the consistency of oil. Phendrana had never seen one and hoped he wouldn't again for as long as he lived, for he knew that what Lamorak was ripping out of the unfortunate drow-shade's chest could only be his shadow orb, the equivalent of a mortal's heart and the life organ that sustained the creatures of shadow.

An involuntary sound of utmost panic welled up from the back of Lim's throat at the sight of it and suddenly he regained movement from the neck up; vaguely Phendrana wondered if Lamorak had allowed him that much, though how he sustained the paralysis in the rest of the drow's body Phendrana could only guess. "Last words?" asked Lamorak idly, as though he doubted that Lim could possibly have anything interesting to say.

Two black shadowblood tears streaked from the corners of Lim's eyes, a sure sign that Lamorak's methods were beginning to affect him on some level; his lips parted as he panted for breath, and his pallor paled from rich black to an unhealthy gray. "I'll tell you," he gasped out, "just put it back!"

"You'll tell me, and I'll consider putting it back afterwards," Lamorak corrected with a soft smile, as though with this promise he was doing the drow an unprecedented kindness. "And if you continue to barter the terms of this arrangement of ours I'll tear it out now, and damn your unspoken words. Your life means nothing to me, and I have no qualms with killing you – but I love Brennus, and if your words might save him I would hear them." As if to accentuate his point Lamorak drew the rapidly-pulsating shadow orb a millimeter or two further away from the drow-shade's chest cavity and Lim cried out, his head thrashing wildly from side to side and his eyes growing wild and half-crazed with fear –

A small part of Phendrana's consciousness perceived the unnatural stillness in the audience chamber, one that suggested no one dared to so much as breathe.

"One of the drow brought it to me!" Lim shrieked at last, as though Lamorak was tearing the words from his throat as well as the life from his body. "An associate of mine from the Jaezred Chaulssin!"

"If you are insinuating that you knew of the coming of those drow and did nothing to prevent their arrival," Lamorak warned in a low, dangerous voice, "then I will kill you here and now, regardless of how important the rest of your explanation might be."

"I didn't know!" cried Lim hurriedly, for his shadow orb was pulsing erratically against Lamorak's vapor-fingers and it seemed that his death was swiftly approaching; could he speak quickly enough, or explain suitably enough, that his life might be spared? "I didn't know they were coming, and I didn't know that he was with the Jaezred Chaussin – not until he was here, explaining it all to me! He's been guarding the Anointed Blade for years, waiting for the opportunity to bring it to me!"

"You'll have to do better than that, I'm afraid." If Lamorak was at all intrigued by a word Lim had said, he was doing quite well in hiding it. "Your story is inconsistent – you don't have the sword, and if you do and you have not divulged as much to us I will kill you for withholding that information. Explain, and do so quickly – as I have already told you, I am not possessed of my brother's patience."

The words were pouring from Lim's lips now as though a dam had burst somewhere deep within him, dark tears still flowing freely from the corners of his eyes. "Years ago, during the course of my lichdom within Castle Perilous, Mourn – "

"Be more specific," Lamorak bade him, his tone that of a teacher berating a troublesome student.

"Mourntrin Auvryndar, my associate from the Jaezred Chaulssin, the Keeper of the Blade!"

"Very good," Lamorak congratulated, with a simpering smile that made Phendrana nauseous all over again.

"Mourn set out from the Underdark with the last few members of the Jaezred Chaulssin that had managed to survive persecution following the Time of Troubles; their goal was to deliver the Anointed Blade to me, but they happened upon a cabal of unknown spellcasters in the tunnels east of Menzoberranzan and were attacked. Two of them were killed, and the other two – Mourn and Xuntath Oblodra, one of the drow who infiltrated Thultanthar as part of the Spider Queen's advance guard, were captured on the road and imprisoned within the spellcaster's underground city." The act of speaking so much was beginning to take its toll on Lim, his shadow orb palpitating irregularly, but he hurried on. "They were interrogated for weeks, during which the Anointed Blade was stolen from Mourn, but somehow an opportunity arose that enabled them to escape. During the chaos they stole that book from one of their interrogators, and sensing the enormity of its power Mourn made it his mission to deliver it to me in place of the sword he had lost."

"Where is he now, this Mourntrin Auvryndar?" inquired Lamorak coldly, his eyes as hard as steel.

Lim swallowed, hesitant to divulge as much, but his shadow orb was now beating a most uneven pattern that Phendrana suspected was a herald for his swiftly approaching end; Lim seemed to have reached a similar conclusion, and this knowledge served to loosen his tongue. "He has returned to the Underdark," Lim confessed, his every word veritably saturated with dread. "After he turned the book over to me I aided in his escape."

"How in the name of the Night Mother could he ever have located you?" the Third Prince pressed. "Surely you were in contact with him all that time – your meeting can hardly be called random happenstance."

"No! I don't know how he found me! I only know that Brennus brought him to me, after Mourn killed Hadrhune!"

These words incited uproar amongst the Princes of Shade the likes of which Phendrana had not yet witnessed.

"Liar!" roared Clariburnus. "Brennus would never name himself the ally of a drow, and especially not the man who had killed the emissary of the Most High just moments before!"

"Kill him!" demanded Rapha. "He knowingly aided in the escape of a criminal against Thultanthar! He pledged support for Hadrhune's murderer – he cannot be allowed to live!"

Of this matter, though, Lamorak already knew the truth; turning his head he locked eyes with Aglarel, who crossed his arms over his chest and nodded once as though he already knew what his brother would say. "That much, at least, is true," Lamorak admitted begrudgingly, his eyes never leaving Aglarel's. "Aglarel and I, and Brennus and Aveil, came upon Phendrana and Soleil just after the drow had fled… Aglarel and I took up the pursuit, ordering Brennus to stay behind, but it seems he did not heed us. We found him in the chapel with the drow priestess, whom he told us had died by his own hand; when we questioned him of the assassin's whereabouts he said he had not seen him, and that Lim had gone to dress his wounds."

"The truth is that Brennus led Mourn to me," Lim explained in a raspy, faltering voice. "And that were it not for his involvement we would both have been slain. Brennus intervened at a pivotal moment when all seemed lost, giving Mourn the opportunity to put an end to the drow priestess. His intervention saved our lives."

"Then our youngest brother is just as much a traitor as you," Escanor observed in a pained tone, running a hand down his face in exasperation, "and his fate, though monstrous, may be a deserved one."

But one thing still didn't add up for Lamorak, whose face had deepened into a frown. "If what you say is true," he asked Lim, "then how did Brennus find you?"

Phendrana opened his mouth to confess, terrified of what the truth of his own involvement might cost him, but Aglarel saved him the trouble. "Isn't it obvious?" said the Fourth Prince broodingly, crooking a questioning eyebrow in the doppelganger's direction. "Brennus found Lim the same way you and I did – Phendrana told him."

Every eye in the audience chamber fell upon him then, and Phendrana couldn't help but lower his own gaze to the floor in shame. It was true – he had been tracking the drow's intentions and whereabouts over the course of several weeks using the fragmented, half-formed images derived from a series of prophetic dreams that had afflicted him since his untimely transformation into a shade. Once thought to be a horrible side-effect of an unsuccessful transformation Phendrana had slowly learned to embrace his visions and use them to the advantage of all, thus foiling a number of the drow's assassination attempts. A series of unforeseen circumstances had made Hadrhune the unintended target of the last killing, something that Phendrana had neither accounted for or been in any position to stop, but he had known where Lim would be as a result of yet another one of those dreams. Initially he had told only Aglarel, Lamorak, and Aveil, then his accomplices for spoiling the drow's murderous designs, but when Aglarel and Lamorak had rushed off in pursuit of Hadrhune's killer he had divulged Lim's whereabouts to Brennus as well. As for why Brennus had intervened on Lim's behalf, Phendrana knew the answer better than any of them.

"Lim had been alluding to the delivery of the Anointed Blade for quite some time, long enough for me to believe that eventually those events would come to pass and the sword would find its way into his hands," Phendrana told them guiltily. "When I inadvertently found myself facing Mourn and he was threatening to kill Soleil he asked me for one thing only – where he could find Lim. Initially I suspected he wanted to know so that he could kill him, but then he told me the truth – that he had come to Thultanthar to deliver something to Lim. I knew it couldn't possibly be a coincidence – Mourn had the thing that Lim had been waiting for, the thing that Lim had insisted he needed in order to put an end to the Spider Queen. So I told Mourn where he could find Lim, and then I told Brennus when all the others had gone. I knew that the drow priestess would be there, attempting to kill Lim herself – time was of the essence, and I knew that if Lim was ever to make good on his promise and displace the Spider Queen from the heavens he would need whatever it was Mourn had for him. I sent Brennus to intervene, to make sure that Mourn and Lim got the chance to interact. I hoped that if Lim's plan ever succeeded that Brennus' involvement would be recognized for what it was – instrumental to the Spider Queen's downfall. I hoped that if he was known to have a hand in the destruction of Shar's most hated rival the High Prince would lift his sentence, and Brennus might be invited back into his confidence with open arms."

The silence that followed Phendrana's admittance was weighty and profound, broken only when Ninth Prince Vattick said, "Then you, too, allowed Hadrhune's killer to escape. You did nothing to stop him."

"At the time I did not know that by his actions he had killed Hadrhune," Phendrana corrected blandly, as though he hardly suspected this fact to matter much in the end, "only that he had failed to kill Soleil. But yes, Prince, it is as you say – I told Mourn where he could find Lim, and then I let him go."

"The doppelganger is as much as traitor as Lim and Brennus," Rivalen told them all gravely. "We would do well to put an end to him, as well as the drow, and then burn the book with Brennus inside it and put this hellish chain of treasonous events well behind us. There is the war with Menzoberranzan to consider, something we have already mustered a great force for – should that not be our priority now, brothers?"

A few voices cropped up to offer their consent at odd intervals, leaving Phendrana's thoughts reeling. They meant to let Brennus die, and to put an end to him simply for telling the truth? He had thought all this time, perhaps foolishly, that he had done something dishonest, but he had never once considered his actions treasonous; if the High Prince spoke up in accord with Rivalen's proposal, was he destined to be killed for his involvement with Mourn?

Only then did Phendrana notice that Lamorak had risen to his feet; his hand was no longer vapor but opaque and the shadow orb was nowhere to be seen, and Lim appeared to be resting in feverish unconsciousness upon the floor. The Determinist Prime's eyes were on his face, probing the doppelganger's eyes for the truth, and Phendrana allowed this invasion of his privacy in the hopes that Lamorak would somehow take his side. "High Prince, I have seen Phendrana's mind quite clearly in the months following his transformation; I feel that I am much more informed when it comes to his intentions, so allow me to tell you what I have seen. Phendrana's heart is just as pure now as it was the day that he came to our city; I feel that at times his judgment is suspect, as it is in this case, but I cannot agree with others who insist that he acts upon malicious designs. Like Brennus, Phendrana is prone to acting based primarily on how he _feels_ – and in this instance he felt that he would be doing the most good in allowing Mourn to visit with Lim, and to deliver this book to him in the hopes that Brennus' standing would somehow improve. Perhaps all of this has happened for a reason, and that reason is so the book could fall into our hands. I despair at the thought of Brennus being trapped within its pages, and I agree that his outlook is grim, but I think it is unwise of us to assume there is nothing that can be done to improve his predicament. We should talk of the _Imaskarcana_, and the wizard-kings who penned it. We should consider every avenue, and then pass judgment. We should hold out hope that your youngest son, whose every thought I truly believe was bent on appeasing you when he set to poring over this book, might yet somehow return to us."

"You think he should not be punished?!" hissed Yder incredulously, as though the very notion was absurd.

"That decision does not rest with me," Lamorak answered easily, though Phendrana thought he glimpsed the hint of an encouraging smile upon the Third Prince's lips before he turned to face Yder. "For my part I can say only that I would not be so quick to condemn the man whose dreams saved the lives of five of our number."

"Well said, brother," spoke up Clariburnus, and Phendrana thought he felt a little of the mounting panic ease out of his chest. "I am in agreement." Then they all turned to receive the wisdom of their sovereign, who by now had ascended to his throne and was seated there comfortably with the book laid across his lap and his chin propped upon one hand as he brooded. His platinum eyes were scouring Phendrana's face for answers and the doppelganger could feel his influence probing his thoughts for the truth of his intentions, and for his part Phendrana did his best to allow the High Prince access to his every thought.

You know me, he dared to say, knowing the Most High would hear. You know that all I do, I do for the good of this realm.

The High Prince offered an infinitesimal nod, one that Phendrana was certain was meant for him and him alone, before shifting his eyes upon Aglarel, who snapped to attention immediately. "Aglarel, get the drow out of my sight – I tire of looking at him, for now I feel as though I am gazing upon Hadrhune's real killer when I do so. Lock him up in the dungeons for now, until I have decided if he can be of further use to me or if I should kill him outright and be done with it." The Fourth Prince bowed obediently and strode to where Lim lay prone and oblivious, and slinging the drow over one shoulder Aglarel dissolved into the Shadow Realm.

"Phendrana," said the High Prince sadly, "again I find myself inclined to show you leniency. I cannot say that I condone your decision to let Mourntrin Auvryndar go free, but I must admit that I understand your reasoning for doing so. There will be no punishment for you this time – a decree that I fully expect my sons to honor – but I ask that you consider very carefully in the days to come the notion that my mercy does have its limitations. Clemency will be your reward for the lives that you saved, but I cannot guarantee that it will not run its course eventually. Do not despair, for you have my eternal gratitude – just remember this warning when you are tempted to make ill-advised decisions in the future. You may be excused – at the present, I do not require your assistance."

And so the doppelganger left the audience chamber, knowing better than to question his sovereign's charity.

"The rest of you have already received your instructions, and this unfortunate series of events does nothing to change them," said Telamont. "In two days the barracks will empty, and Escanor, Clariburnus, Yder, and Rapha will lead the Army of Shade into the Underdark. That the drow are our enemies now there can be no question – the loss of Brennus will not dissuade my course to pursue vengeance upon them for the death of Hadrhune, as well as the other transgressions they have committed against us. Mattick, Vattick, and Aveil – converse amongst yourselves and divine a way that you might preside over Brennus' classes at the College until a more permanent solution presents itself; if you are questioned regarding his absence, say only that he is away performing a task of the utmost importance at my personal request. For now, you are all dismissed – for those of you who will not be journeying to Menzoberranzan, rest assured that I will call upon you if I have a need." The High Prince said nothing more, content to wait patiently as one by one the members of the Shadow Council exited to continue about their daily duties or personal pursuits, until the audience hall had almost completely emptied and he said, "Lamorak… stay a moment."

The Determinist Prime moved toward the short staircase leading up to the dais upon which the throne sat, his head bowed in obeisance and his hands clasped modestly before him. "Allow me to apologize, Most High. My methods were extreme and far too dangerous to be employed without your permission. I did not think there was time to explain, and I knew that Lim would respond favorably."

"I am not about to chastise you for getting the answers I required," the High Prince assured him with an indulgent little smile. "What you did was unorthodox and dangerous, as you say, but there is no denying that your little ploy got results and so for that allow me to commend you. You showed tremendous ingenuity, great restraint, and I believe I even glimpsed the budding hints of your growing compassion… I find you much changed, my son."

"Much has changed in the last half year," Lamorak replied broodingly, a slight crease forming between his eyebrows, and the High Prince worked to alleviate his mounting concerns.

"I feel compelled to reward you for your assistance today, though when I tell you what I intend for you to do it may not seem like a reward at first." Telamont lifted the _Imaskarcana_ from his lap and held it aloft. "Tell me, what do you know of this book? In your defense of Phendrana you called it by name, so I can only assume you know a great deal – more, perhaps, than any of your brothers."

Lamorak nodded, the ghost of a somewhat wistful smile touching the corners of his lips ever so briefly. "Yes… Third Queen Maedra spoke of the wizard-kings of Imaskar often when I was very young. She had a special fondness for spinning the tale of their rise and downfall as if it was a work of fantasy; it wasn't until I was grown and she was no longer with us that I came to understand just how much truth her stories held to them. Brennus, of course, wouldn't know of such things…" The Determinist Prime bowed his head respectfully, murmuring, "Forgive me."

High Prince Telamont was nodding somewhat absentmindedly, his gaze somewhat distant as he considered Lamorak's explanation. The late Queens of Thultanthar were rarely mentioned even in passing – there had been five in all, and in their time they had assisted Lord Shadow in ruling the enclave with grace and poise, but their positions at the monarch's side had been sadly very temporary. Third Queen Maedra, Lamorak's mother, was to this day considered the High Prince's one great love – she had passed away due to childbirth complications while giving birth to Brennus, and the High Prince had mourned her death so grievously that many were convinced their great ruler would never in his lifetime take another bride. For political advantages he had pursued two other unions whilst married to Queen Maedra, but there was no denying that the Most High adored her above all others.

"And when you were grown," the Most High pressed, "did the Queen share with you the truth buried beneath the fantasy?"

"She did… she was fascinated by Imaskar, and by the sudden eradication of their civilization." Lamorak's eyes were somewhat glossy as he reminisced, dredging up memories from hundreds of years previous; Queen Maedra's death had occurred nearly thirteen hundred years ago, and the stories she had spun for her eldest son were easily from seven hundred years before that. "I have a fairly comprehensive understanding of their history, despite the fact that it pre-dates even the Netherese Imperium – the wizard-kings of Imaskar were diligent in the documentation of their empire, and recorded a great deal of the happenings within their kingdom. Of the Entry of the Gods I am well-versed – the many enslaved races who were made to serve the Imaskari artificers prayed night and day for their salvation and it was the god Ptah who answered them, blessing them with his mercy and raising them as divine minions. When they swept down the Godswatch Mountains and slew every artificer they came across the careful chronology of Imaskar history ends, so it was assumed that their entire race was lost in the massacre." His eyes were scouring the cover of the book the High Prince still held, his calculating expression belying a hint of the wonder he felt. "But if what the drow says is true, and one of the volumes of the _Imaskarcana_ was recovered from the Underdark…"

"Few people yet live who recall the fall of the Empire of Imaskar," Telamont broke in, descending from his throne and holding the tome out for the Third Prince to take; Lamorak, baffled, fumbled and nearly dropped it to the ground, for the mystical energies it emanated produced a faint current that sent a surge of magical potential through his fingertips. "The Netherese Imperium was little more than a budding settlement then, and I was only a child and had not yet donned the moniker of Lord Shadow. One of our earliest historians chronicled the event in as much detail as he could, but Netherese eyes were not privy to the disaster so we can only speculate as to many of the particulars… I can tell you, though, that the Imaskar race did not perish on the day their rebellious slaves swept down the Godswatch Mountains."

The hum of magical energies surging into Lamorak's fingertips gave off a pleasant warmth; vaguely he wondered if Brennus had been as taken with the book as he was starting to feel. "Why have we not seen or heard about them?" he asked curiously, doing his best to focus on the task at hand. "If such powerful wizards still dwelt upon the surface then surely…" Lamorak abandoned his thought mid-sentence as a new piece of the puzzle fell into place. "They fled to the Underdark."

"The city of Deep Imaskar was founded a few decades later, under the watchful guidance of an artificer called Ilphemon," said the High Prince informatively, leading the Determinist Prime in the direction of the darkened and still world window. "He led a group of refugees away from the site of the slaughter and delved deep underground, in the hopes that in the most lightless annals of our world their vengeful slaves would never find them. Myself, I have never had an inkling to search for the precise location of their new city." They stood together near the edge of the world window's basin, gazing into the eerily still depths of the pool and wondering what the darkness might yield, and the High Prince said, "Show me Deep Imaskar."

The surface of the pool brightened but the picture was muddled; Lamorak squinted at the image reflected therein, but whatever the enchanted device meant to show them did not come through clearly. There were obscure shadows and vivid, beautifully-intermingling colors, angular lines of architecture and graceful curves of stone, but the details were vague and murky – it was rather like trying to glimpse the bottom of a lake that was riddled with impurities. The Third Prince glanced uneasily at his sovereign, wondering how this would affect the High Prince's outlook on the situation, but was surprised to find that Telamont seemed hardly put off at all.

"I had expected as much… To be perfectly honest I would have been disappointed if Ilphemon's descendants hadn't thought to safeguard the city's location from prying eyes using magical means." Telemont lifted one hand to stroke his chin thoughtfully, his eyes scouring the murky, inconclusive picture reflected off the surface of the world window. "This is a curious development indeed… If the Deep Imaskari are aware of the book's disappearance and know for certain that it was Lim's associate who stole it from them, they will be using every means known to them to pinpoint the book's location. And if they trace it back to us, they will likely conclude that we are allies of the drow and retaliate in kind."

Lamorak wasn't concerned by this turn of events at first. "The might of Thultanthar is something to be feared… even the Deep Imaskari, armed as they are with their ancient knowledge of the arcane, must know as much. Surely if they threaten us we can combat them."

Telamont turned a decidedly grave eye upon the Third Prince then, the corners of his mouth turned down in severe displeasure, and said, "Remember what happened to the last Prince of Shade who did not fully respect the great wisdom written within the _Imaskarcana_ – Brennus is a brilliant man with a keen mind, but he is not possessed of your patience for such delicate matters as these. Had he exercised caution – and perhaps reached out for assistance from those older and more learned – he would likely still be with us now… but he is not."

The palms of Lamorak's hands were almost uncomfortably warm now; glancing down he allowed his eyes to roam the cover of the _Imaskarcana_ yet again, trying his best to gaze beyond what its writers had labored long and hard for non-Imaskari to see. There was no denying that the tome's protective enchantments had been unraveled by his youngest brother – that much, at least, the Determinist Prime could sense at a glance – but the truly ominous dweomers, subtler magics that the sharpest minds of the Empire of Imaskar had toiled for centuries to perfect, were still woven into the unorthodox pages of the book as though they were just another part of its construction. These spells, the warming sensation it elicited at the slightest touch and the appealing shimmer radiating from the thin crystalline pages and the pleasing smoothness of the durable vellum sheaves were most dangerous of all, and it saddened Lamorak to think that in his desperation Brennus had all but ignored them in favor of delving into the secrets chiseled upon its pages. It was as his sovereign said – caution would have proved Brennus's savior, but he had underestimated the know-how of the Imaskari artificers and now it was quite possible he was lost to them.

He thought he understood just why the High Prince had called upon him to consider the binding of the _Imaskarcana_, as well as to partake in the retelling of the rise and fall of Imaskar. "You want me to study it," Lamorak observed, his words not a question but a statement of fact. "You want me to learn the secrets of a civilization far older than ours."

"I want you to seek Brennus out within those pages, to divine if there is indeed a way that he might earn a reprieve and return to us," Telamont corrected enigmatically. "And if you happen to scrape together an understanding of the oldest and most powerful cabal of arcane masters who have ever walked this earth… Well, I will have every reason to praise your efforts, and your successes."

"My understanding of Roushoum is quite limited," Lamorak protested numbly, referring to the ancient language known only to the wizard-kings of Imaskar and their most trusted retainers. "Only a handful of the most wizened scholars across Faerun can say they know even a handful of key words and phrases of the language. Even in my years of listening to Queen Maedra's stories she only taught me the most basic speech – nothing more complex than Imaskari children would know."

A hint of the wistful, somewhat saddened smile that Lamorak himself had worn earlier appeared briefly upon the High Prince's face as he said, "Then perhaps it is to your mother's texts that you should look before you begin delving into the book's contents. Her musings encompass several journals – they are in my possession, and I can assure you that they have been perfectly preserved over the years. I have no doubt that she managed to chronicle a more thorough understanding of Roushoum."

Lamorak tucked the _Imaskarcana_ under one arm and offered the High Prince a single nod of finality, his agreement to enlist in the task he had been presented with. "Then in the name of Queen Maedra and Brennus I will make this my life's great undertaking, Most High, and I give you my word that I will not rest until I have exhausted every possibility. If there is a way that Brennus might be restored to flesh and blood, I vow that I will find it."

Illyria prided herself on her ability to fake sleep – some people overdid it, but she knew that the trick was to look peaceful and innocent and she'd had a knack for that since before she could walk. So when she knew that Voltain was almost through with his study of the _Imaskarcana_ for the evening she curled up on the simple couch near the front of his apartment, tucked her wings around her like a blanket, and relaxed her face as she pretended to doze lightly with her cheek pressed against the arm of the couch cushion. She must have timed it just right because only ten minutes later she heard his familiar footfalls upon the carpet in the hall before he paused, likely just outside his bedchamber while presumably his eyes scoured her face for any sign of foul play. Illyria simply focused on keeping her breathing pattern relaxed and even, and after a minute or two she heard Voltain's footsteps retreat back into his private quarters. The moment the bedroom door quietly clicked shut behind him she sat up and stretched her wings luxuriously, and then she was on her feet and rummaging through the cabinet at the other end of the room where Voltain tended to stash various spellcasting components.

It took some effort – the gloaming's specialties were the arts of manipulation and deception, and the world of the arcane was mostly just loud noises and flashing lights where she was concerned – but she knew what she needed to scrape together to cast a limited scry spell and Voltain was just intrusive enough to always be trusted to keep the required materials on hand. When she was certain she had collected everything she needed she scooped it all into her frail arms and fluttered out the window to the tiny balcony, and there she crouched beneath the windowsill to cast her spell.

The lateness of the hour did not dissuade her from her course. Somehow he always seemed to be awake when she called – she loved that about him.

"Illyria," he said, a bite of impatience to his tone, "I told you the last time we spoke that if there was anything I required from you, I would be in touch. There are pressing matters that I must – "

"I know, I know," she overrode him, employing her most sugary-sweet voice to address him, for from all that she remembered he had always gotten some measure of perverse enjoyment from the little girl gig. Inwardly she was thrilled when he allowed her interruption without protest – the need to please him filled every ounce of her being, acute to the point of agony. "You know I wouldn't bother you unless it was something really, really important, don't you?"

He sighed – her heart plummeted in her chest – but then he conceded the point. "I will say that your definition of 'important' is often off-base," he observed reluctantly, "but I'm also aware that you know better than to disturb me with petty requests by now. What is it that you have to tell me?"

Illyria peeked over the windowsill to ensure that Voltain hadn't come back out into the sitting room looking for her, her wings folded in tightly against her shoulder blades – if he ever caught wind of where her true allegiance lay he would likely kill her in an instant, and she needed time to convey an adequate warning before her intentions became public knowledge. "Listen, I can't tell you right now… it's not safe where I am. I know what you're gonna say, it's too dangerous, but – "

"The answer is no, Illyria. I already told you – I run a great risk in entertaining your company here and my reputation is not something I am willing to gamble. If you aren't safe there then I strongly advise that you – "

"Don't tell me to call again!" Hot tears pricked the backs of her eyelids, the thought of rejection threatening to bury her like a tidal wave. "You have to make me a portal! I'm begging you, Prince – I need to come back to Thultanthar!"


	5. Chapter Five - The Game

Lesser nobles and commoners alike turned out for the departure of the Army of Shade to the Underdark two days later; still shamed and brooding Phendrana watched the proceedings from the balcony of his private chambers alone, absentmindedly lifting a hand to wave every time someone shouted his name in adoration from somewhere below. The streets were congested with foot traffic despite the fact that all the lesser avenues had been blocked off to give the warriors direct access from the Hall of the Arts Martial to the Palace Most High, for they were marching on foot to where the High Prince awaited them with a blessing from Shar and a grand speech of farewell and gratitude. At the head of their entourage, donned in elaborate sets of black glass armor trimmed in amethyst and cloaks of supple, violet velvet were the four Princes of Shade who had been chosen as battle captains for the upcoming invasion; Fifth Prince Clariburnus, ever a supporter and friend of Phendrana's, waved to the doppelganger as the grandiose procession swept up The Circle and even flashed a wide smile. This gesture Phendrana returned, but he could feel how his own smile twisted guiltily on his face and this prompted him to drop his hand back to his side almost immediately.

The grand balcony, the topmost point of the palace with a stunning view of all the city, was just visible from Phendrana's vantage point near the bottommost curve of The Circle; it was there that the High Prince waited to offer the Army of Shade a grand sendoff, with a select few retainers he had chosen to represent the Shadow Court for the occasion. At his right side stood Second Prince Rivalen, who would be reading the Night Mother's blessing from the Book of Shar cradled in the crook of his left arm, and beside him stood Aveil Arthien arrayed in her dark gray senior arcanist's garb with the black scepter that served as her badge of office in one hand; Phendrana wondered at this pairing, for he hadn't known that the Sceptrana and the High Priest entertained any kind of companionship. On their sovereign's left stood Lamorak, whose eyes Phendrana could feel scouring his face even from such a distance, and beside the Third Prince stood Soleil in a grand jade green gown; at her throat sparkled a breathtaking emerald pendant nestled within a bed of delicate pearls, and a matching crown was arranged upon her soft dark curls.

Phendrana had all but forgotten that he was no longer alone within his own mind until a voice spoke up to address him; he was so surprised by this unexpected development that he actually flinched at the sound.

Lim Tal'eyve stole your Torc of Heroic Sacrifice, and offered it to me so that I would use it to intervene on Soleil's behalf.

The High Prince's words of welcome were booming throughout the courtyard now, magically enhanced so that his every word would be heard throughout the enclave; Phendrana kept his eyes rooted upon their sovereign's face, but his attention was turned inward. This was the first time Hadrhune had spoken since the doppelganger had integrated the seneschal's psyche into his mind. _For what purpose? I wasn't aware that he entertained the princess' interests so avidly._

He doesn't, Hadrhune corrected with a bitter scoff. He has no reason to, but the elaborate tale he spun to ensnare me to his interests at the time made me blind to the truth. Curiosity ignited in the depths of Phendrana's stomach at these words, made all the stronger when Hadrhune added, I have had a great deal of time to consider Lim's actions and I believe I have formed a hypothesis, but there is much I must explain before I can share it with you or you will hardly understand.

_You have my utmost attention, of course,_ Phendrana assured, wondering what had occurred to make the seneschal feel so agreeable but reluctant to ask. The last thing he wanted to do was say something that would prompt his surly companion to keep his thoughts to himself – or worse, something that would make him start screaming again. Just remembering the endless din made him cringe.

The future Lim envisioned – the one in which the assassination attempt on Soleil's life actually succeeded – was a bleak one, a gruesome one, one that he must have known I would do anything and everything to prevent, said Hadrhune, with the air of one about to tell quite a long-winded story. In it Escanor renounced his claim to the throne and the other princes rose in mutiny to stake their claim to the title that he threw away. Lim imagined that the more ambitious of the High Prince's sons, in their attempts to secure their claim, would quarrel amongst themselves for Aveil's hand in marriage.

_But…_ At first the mindmaster couldn't help but wonder why this would be the case, but grim realization took very little time to settle in. _Oh. I see._

Precisely. Aveil's right to the throne of the Frostfell is irrefutable – she could return to the Spine of the World whenever she wished, and all it would take for her to reclaim the crown is a simple matter of proclaiming her lineage, and as the only heir to the previous king the current steward would have no choice but to relinquish it to her. There are many fine, well-bred ladies among the Upper Court who would make fine unions for the Princes of Shade, but the one thing that Aveil can offer that they cannot is her exotic bloodlines. The prestige that she would bring to a union with any one of the High Prince's sons makes her an ideal candidate for marriage – in one political maneuver Thultanthar could lay claim to the Frostfell and command the whole of the North using Aveil's throne, and they wouldn't even have to manipulate her to get it.

_Your sacrifice was never about Soleil_, Phendrana observed, feeling as though he had been blind all these weeks and was only now seeing clearly for the first time. _At least, not directly. You did what you had to do to protect Aveil._

Let's not be melodramatic, Hadrhune bade him sarcastically, though it did not escape Phendrana's notice that the seneschal didn't correct him outright. My aim was to make the future that Lim envisioned impossible, and to do that I needed to ensure that Soleil survived – my life seemed such an expendable thing to offer in exchange.

It was quiet for a moment, during which Hadrhune listened with mild interest as Rivalen read Shar's blessing in the melodic and ponderous tongue of the ancient Netherese language and Phendrana was momentarily overwhelmed by the seneschal's regret as it crept like a fog through his subconscious, until Phendrana said, _Obviously I disagree._

I am well aware that you have developed some manner of misplaced righteousness where my cursed half-life within your mind is concerned, spat Hadrhune viciously, but I do not share your point of view – nor will I, for that matter. I intended to die in service to the High Prince, knowing that with my final act I might have atoned for my transgressions, and because of you I was unable to even do that much. Don't mistake the facts for compliance – I simply thought you ought to know.

_But why_? asked Phendrana, doing his best to keep the bitterness out of his voice at Hadrhune's biting remarks.

Don't you think it's a little too coincidental that just weeks after my death, if you could call it such a thing, suddenly Prince Brennus has become trapped within that book – a book that, by Lim's own confession, he gave to Brennus in the first place? Since Lim has arrived in our midst our lives have been a constant battle for survival, and our numbers are now two less than before. I've already told you, I have had a great deal of time to consider Lim's motivations and I think there is only one reason for what is happening here – he has made a bargain he knows he cannot keep, and his only goal now is to kill as many of us as he can with the power he has been given before that very same power is forcibly wrested from him.

Phendrana's head spun, and his eyes watered – he wasn't sure when last he had blinked, and vaguely hoped that no one had noticed the vacancy in his expression. He was not accustomed to conversing with anyone within his own mind any longer, not since Brennus had gifted him with the shadow and inadvertently mended that fractured facet of his mind. _But why? We have been nothing but accommodating to him – what reason could he have to name us his enemies?_

Hadrhune laughed cruelly then, as though he was truly astounded by Phendrana's naivety, and said, Have you forgotten? He is a drow - that is all the reason he needs. Their foul kind thrives on chaos the way you and I thrive on the shadow, and mark my words – if Lim Tal'eyve gets his way he will kill us all, simply because leaving a trail of bloody bodies behind them is the kind of perverse activity that the drow most delight in.

The mindmaster considered this, his trepidation twisting darkly into genuine dread when he realized that the seneschal was correct in his assumptions. The dark elf race was unpredictable in temperament and motivation, but despite their dissimilarities their aim was always the same – the pursuit of chaos simply because bedlam was something they enjoyed. Phendrana knew little of Lim Tal'eyve and what had driven him to pursue his alliance with Thultanthar, but he did know that it would be wise not to assume Lim was beyond those innate desires. The circumstances surrounding Hadrhune's death, as well as Mourn's arrival into their midst and his delivery of the _Imaskarcana_, were a prime example of the drow's love of pandemonium.

_I have a proposition to put to you, doppelganger_, Hadrhune grumbled, thus interrupting Phendrana's musings, and after gauging the attentiveness and curiosity of Phendrana's subconscious he continued. _Now that death has been unceremoniously ripped from my grasp and I am forced to live within your mind, I suppose I might as well do something with my time – to that end, I propose an alliance. _

Phendrana couldn't help feeling taken aback, for less than a day ago Hadrhune's inconsolable screams had been reverberating throughout every crevice of his consciousness and clouding his mental facilities with its all-consuming, morose din. How was it now that the seneschal had so easily come to terms with his lot in life? Had he been so affected by Brennus' fate that it had altered his entire perspective so completely?

He had forgotten that he was now sharing thoughts with another, and so was mildly surprised at first when Hadrhune answered his unspoken questions. _Yes_, the shadow sorcerer told him simply. _My death is one thing – I might have avoided it altogether had I had more time to consider how best I might protect Soleil, but I did not have that luxury. But this… It is quite possible that Prince Brennus will never be recovered from the book, and even if he returns to us somehow this crime of Lim Tal'eyve's is unforgiveable. He gave the book to Brennus purposely, knowing what it was capable of but too cowardly to face it… Brennus' fate was premediated. We cannot risk such a fate befalling anyone else, and so long as Lim remains in our midst the possibility remains._

_And that is your proposition?_ Phendrana inquired, as upon the grand observation deck Prince Rivalen closed the Book of Shar at his conclusion of the blessing; the Army of Shade was cheering jubilantly, but somehow the doppelganger scarcely heard the din. _To destroy Lim Tal'eyve?_

At this point I would like nothing better, promised Hadrhune grudgingly, but while he is in the High Prince's custody it would not be prudent for us to act in such a manner.

The doppelganger allowed his recollections to serve as his response, dredging up the not-so-distant memory when Lamorak had confided the true depths of the High Prince's insight for Phendrana's consideration. Phendrana, along with Aglarel and Aveil, had spent the past several months monitoring Lim's comings and goings with a kind of manic interest, convinced that discretion would keep their intentions from becoming known to their sovereign while they took it upon themselves to determine the drow's true motives – Lamorak had divulged in secret that not only was the Most High aware of their private ministrations, he had known of them all along. For his part Hadrhune watched quietly, half annoyed by the delay and half grudgingly impressed by the clarity of the doppelganger's memories, but Phendrana found the seneschal just as resolute as before when it was over.

Lamorak confided that we have the High Prince's blessing to move against Lim if we feel such drastic action is necessary, Phendrana pointed out, knowing even as he argued that Hadrhune would hardly agree.

To foil whatever he is planning, perhaps, but to kill him? I hardly think we can afford to make such a dangerous assumption, Hadrhune insisted, his tone of voice adamant. I cannot say how closely to heart the Most High holds Lim's proposition to put the Spider Queen to death, but if he still intends to hold the drow to it and we eliminate him we will be charged as criminals and likely sentenced to death right alongside him. So for now I propose that we wait and watch, so that when the time comes for us to act we are prepared to do so. With four of the Princes of Shade now departing the enclave for war it is more imperative than ever that we remain vigilant. If some unfortunate fate befalls one of the other princes…

Phendrana couldn't entirely suppress his shudder at the thought, arguably one of the most abhorrent he had yet entertained. He already felt impossibly wretched – every time the image of his sweet prince Brennus entombed within the enchanted pages of the _Imaskarcana_ appeared unbidden into his mind he felt he might be suddenly and violently ill – so how might he feel if yet more of the High Prince's sons came to some gruesome end? No, Hadrhune was right – they had to work together to prevent such an outcome at all costs. There simply was no other option available to them.

We are agreed, said Phendrana at length. Lim Tal'eyve has overreached himself. I came here to devote myself to the High Prince's agenda – what could be nearer to his heart than the safeguarding of his sons?

That was the first time that Hadrhune managed to muster the barest fraction of a smile, and though it vanished just as quickly as it had appeared it incited within Phendrana a much-needed flicker of hope. Perhaps they could co-exist together; perhaps all they had needed to unite them was their shared hatred of a common enemy. _On that matter, doppelganger, you and I will always agree._

After two days with no visitors, Lim assumed it was safe enough for him to attempt to contact Mourn. Even from within the bowels of the palace, in the sublevels beneath the city's foundation where the dungeons were situated, it was still possible to hear the roaring crowds expressing their support for and bidding farewell to the Army of Shade – surely no one would seek the pleasure of his company now, of all times? With dust-caked fingers he unfastened the thin, rapier-shaped pin from the inside of his tunic – he had had just enough time to conceal it before First Prince Escanor had apprehended him and dragged him to the palace to answer for Brennus' fate.

He listened again, finding a meager measure of solace in the sound of a steady drip somewhere beyond his solitary holding cell and nothing else, before manipulating his manacles just so and lifting the pin to his lips. "Mourn."

Silence followed his call just long enough for him to begin to panic, dispelled only by the sound of his companion's familiar voice echoing ethereally from the sword-tip of the pin. "_Exalted Blade. It is a relief to hear your voice… It has been six days, and I dare not attempt to contact you for fear I will bring you trouble."_

"Mourn," Lim said again, stoically ignoring the way his voice broke pitifully upon the other drow's name, "listen very carefully. The Princes of Shade have declared war upon Menzoberranzan. It is no longer safe for you to reside within the city."

Deep within the lightless annals of the Underdark, in the tunnels barely a mile from the spacious cavern that housed the grand city of Menzoberranzan, Mourntrin Auvryndar slowed his soundless tread and slunk behind a wide stalagmite for additional cover; he typically brought up the rear of the scouting patrol when he chose to take place in such routines and felt confident that his presence wouldn't be missed. The matching pin he wore was concealed beneath a fold of his _piwafwi_ where the casual onlooker wouldn't notice it; he unclipped it and held it aloft, marveling at Lim's words. The forces that Menzoberranzan commanded were mighty, there was no question of that – it was the largest drow establishment in the Underdark, and since the Time of Troubles the high priestesses had worked tirelessly to ensure that they boasted the Spider Queen's utmost favor. Still, the news that the shadow masters of Thultanthar were making with all haste for their city filled him with dread – he had spent only two very short sojourns within the City of Shade, and had been rather hoping that dealing with the Princes of Shade would not crop up on his to-do list again anytime soon. The sons of Telamont were ruthless, cunning, and commanded a host of foreign powers that the drow would be hard-pressed to defend against, much less combat successfully.

With all of these things in mind he gave a little shake of his head in an attempt to focus – with Lim sounding distinctly unnerved he knew he would have to at least sound composed. "With all due respect, Exalted Blade, are you certain?"

"The Army of Shade will be moving within the hour – already the High Prince is bidding them farewell and good luck on their journey. He has named four of his sons as battle captains, seasoned warriors all and with a host of other talents at their disposal in addition to their skills with a blade. I cannot say what numbers the army boasts, for I have not seen it with my own eyes."

Something about these words gave Mourn the impression that something was amiss. "Do things fare well with you? I can understand that the threat of war would be unsettling, but you seem distinctly unnerved."

"I am now a prisoner within the palace dungeons," said Lim impatiently, "awaiting what I am certain will turn out to be quite an amusing and elaborate sentence."

"On what grounds?" hissed Mourn, hoping that none of his scouting companions were within earshot. If anyone caught wind of the fact that he was conspiring with Lim Tal'eyve, known traitor to the Spider Queen and now the leader of the male drow cult of the Jaezred Chaulssin, his fate would likely be worse than the one Lim now awaited within Thultanthar.

"It's the book – I was reluctant to attempt to dispel its enchantments and so as a precaution I gave it to Brennus for further inspection. I didn't think him possessed of the arcane or historic acumen necessary to unravel the protective spells keeping it closed but he surprised me… Not that it mattered, for in the end it assimilated him into one of its pages. The High Prince blames me for the entire catastrophe."

Mourn ran a hand down his face, despaired by the news. If Lim Tal'eyve was killed before he could fulfill his pivotal role as the Anointed Blade it was likely that the male portion of the dark elf race would remain forever oppressed by the radical matriarchal society that they lived in. His head spun with a multitude of questions but he focused on choosing carefully, for certainly their time was already growing short. "Where is the book now?"

"At the time of my imprisonment it was in the High Prince's possession… I assume it is with him still. Our situation now is more precarious than ever, Mourn – the High Prince is powerful, far more powerful than I had originally guessed, and if anyone within this wretched shadow-ridden city is possessed of the ability to wield the tome it is certainly him. I fear that my tenure within the dungeons is only just beginning, so I have a proposition to put to you."

"Of course, Exalted Blade. You know that I will aid you however I can." Their fates were one in the same, united by the Anointed Blade – Mourn was inexorably bound to Lim, in success and in failure.

"The city you occupied during your imprisonment… How confident are you that you could locate it again? Have you any clues as to its location?"

Mourn thought back to the events leading up to his miraculous escape and couldn't help but shudder. "It would take some time but yes, I could locate it… Gaining entry is another matter entirely, unfortunately."

"That is a predicament we will have to consider at a later date, I'm afraid. Mourn… I highly doubt that I will be leaving the dungeons anytime soon, so in lieu of that I must appoint you my successor. In the event that I am incapacitated by my captors or I am sentenced to die for my crimes, it falls to you to retrieve the Anointed Blade and carry out our mission to bring down the Spider Queen."

"Exalted Blade, please," pleaded Mourn, his fingers tight around the sword pin, "I couldn't possibly accomplish such a task alone. You and I are the last remaining members of the Jaezred Chaulssin. Annihilating Lolth is your birthright, and I am but a lowly messenger advocating your interests. I will do all that I can to recover the sword, but it is not mine to wield… I doubt I could even try."

"If it is numbers that we need and you insist on staying within the city's limits, we have no choice but to recruit from the ranks of Bregan D'aerthe. The mercenary band was founded by renegade male drow with a certain level of disrespect for the females of our race… Surely you can scrape together a handful of them who would be willing to join our cause. As for your appointment, you may not have a say in the matter. I knew that throwing my lot in with the Princes of Shade would be a gamble and I accepted the risks, and now you must do the same. There is no one else that I can trust with this, Mourn – the importance of this task is too great. Say that you will do this for me – in my current state, it would be a great comfort to me."

"I will," Mourn heard himself say, startled by the sound of his own voice – the inflections were unfamiliar, as though someone else had spoken on his behalf. "But I feel compelled to seek entry into Thultanthar. If your predicament is as dire as you say I cannot in good conscience leave you to your fate – if the Princes of Shade truly wish to condemn you they will likely find a way to do so, even in the absence of any supporting evidence."

"I forbid it," snapped Lim, his voice suddenly severe. "It is too dangerous for you here – your identity is known to them now, including your name and your affiliation to the Jaezred Chaulssin. I compromised your safety to save myself in the hopes that they would be unable to reach you, but now that their army is marching for your city I no longer feel as confident. Do not play into their hands by returning here, and if the siege begins to go ill for the drow I order you to flee."

Flee? How could he abandon Bregan D'aerthe, knowing that the walls of their subterranean establishment were the only safe haven he had left? Where would he go? How could he hope to survive the many perils of the Underdark with just his own wits and cunning at his disposal? Nevertheless, he couldn't refuse a direct order from the Exalted Blade. "I will approach members of Bregan D'aerthe about involving themselves with our cause in due course. In the meantime I will be vigilant knowing that the Army of Shade has marked our city for war, and I will flee if no other option presents itself to me. That is all I can promise you for now."

"Then it will have to do," said Lim with a sigh, not even bothering to hide his exasperation any longer. "Make it your priority to locate the Anointed Blade – we cannot possibly carry on without it. In the meantime proceed as planned and wait for my call, but do not be particularly mindful of the time… I cannot say when I might call again, for I haven't a clue what the High Prince has in store for me."

"I will pray daily for your good health and do all that I can to aid you from here," Mourn promised, and sensing that their conversation was at an end he quickly fastened the pin to the inside of his cloak and hastened to catch up with the rear of his scouting patrol, his mind a whirlwind of unanswered questions.

Him, the Anointed Blade of the Jaezred Chaulssin, the one destined to strike Lolth down deep in the darkest bowels of the Abyss? The notion did not sit well with him, not because the responsibility was too great but because he had known all along that his lot in life was to protect the blade with his life – actually wielding it had never crossed his mind even once, not even while it had been in his possession. Now Lim was all but convinced he wouldn't live to complete his task, and Mourn had no choice but to take up the mantle of Anointed Blade in his place? He hung his head as much as he dared while navigating the narrow passageway in pursuit of his companions, displeased with the thought. Much rested on the two of them now, and the one implement they needed to succeed was no longer in their hands – no, it was the curiosity piece of a race of spellcasters whose city Mourn somehow needed to breach to retrieve it, and given that his escape from that place had been aided in a great way by someone whose name he didn't even know his prospects seemed grim indeed.

It brought rise to an intriguing question – just who was that odd little gloaming with the hair redder than the sunrise, and why had she bothered to save him at all?

Aveil was quick to excuse herself discreetly the moment she heard Aglarel's summons; the black sapphire stud she wore pierced through the helix of her ear was one of a pair of such trinkets whose sister gem the Fourth Prince himself wore, and they used them as a means of contacting one another when they were separated so that they could commune whenever the need arose. When it pinged softly in her ear she glanced sidelong at Rivalen, who had just concluded the reading of the Night Mother's blessing, and offered a soft and swift explanation for her departure; he nodded agreeably enough and promised to explain her absence to the High Prince if the need arose, and she set off at once.

The Fourth Prince was waiting for her in the High Prince's audience hall, his back stiff with displeasure and his arms folded over his chest; she hurried to his side and glanced down into the magically illuminated depths of the world window, whose surface reflected the rapidly-moving lips of Lim Tal'eyve for a handful of seconds more before Aglarel waved one hand irritably over the image and the scene went dark. "I thought the drow would use the departure of the Army of Shade as an opportunity to contact Mourn, his associate with the Jaezred Chaulssin, and I was not wrong – they spoke briefly just now. Lim warned him of the impending arrival of our forces, among other things."

"So they are still in contact," observed Aveil with a grimace, and when she dared to glance up at Aglarel out of the corner of her eye she was unsurprised to find the Fourth Prince scowling severely down at the darkened surface of the world window. "What will you do now? Will you kill him?"

"At this point nothing would please me more than crushing the life from that disgusting miscreant," Aglarel confessed with gritted teeth and narrowed eyes, "but the Most High has yet to issue such an order and I dare not cross him on this. I think he is waiting to see what the drow will do now that his movements have been limited and his options are dwindling – until we can be certain Lim has told us all he knows, we can't afford to kill him."

Aveil begrudgingly conceded the logic, running one hand raggedly through her thick, silky black hair. "If you heard him divulge the movements of the Army of Shade to Mourn we can have him convicted on suspicion of treason – that information is confidential, and by his own words Lim is now conspiring against the High Prince."

"We could," agreed Aglarel blackly, "but the army is already moving – even if we departed now we wouldn't be able to intercept them before they left the city. The true danger lies in what Mourn does with the information he has been given, for if he notifies the necessary authorities of our plans the whole city of Menzoberranzan could be on alert and waiting to receive our forces. If we lose the element of surprise, many lives will be lost."

The Sceptrana gazed up into Aglarel's face, her eyes searching, and though she couldn't bring herself to be surprised by what she found there she could not deny her own despair. "You mean to go after them. You are hoping that when you divulge what you have learned to the Most High that he will dispatch you as a precaution."

"It is vital that we employ every advantage we can," said the Fourth Prince diplomatically, but Aveil wouldn't hear a word of his explanation.

"Your only aim here is to prove to yourself and to the High Prince that you are in control of your blood and its radical urges, but the reality is that you aren't!" she cried, concern apparent in her every feature. "I had thought you much improved, but when we questioned Lim just days ago you nearly killed him! If you lost control – "

Aglarel spun on his heel and seized the front of her robes, hauling her slight weight around easily and hefting her off the ground until he was glaring her directly in the eye; already his eyes, cold and sharp as well-tempered steel, were muddled with a kind of dark crimson that signified an oncoming loss of control. Aglarel was actually the only one of the Princes of Shade whose lineage was not pure-blooded Netherese – his mother was an Erinye, a winged creature that dwelt in the Abyss, making Aglarel half-devil. Recently the High Prince had been possessed of a need to unlock Aglarel's full potential and had mystically tapped into the dark, foreign energies that had been slumbering in the Fourth Prince's blood for centuries; as a result Aglarel now boasted a great deal more power than before, but the near-constant violent tendencies that were a by-product of that unlocked bloodline made the once perfectly-composed Aglarel both volatile and unpredictable. In situations where Aglarel was at a heightened risk for becoming angered he was a danger to himself and to those around him – as far as Aveil was aware this was a side effect of his blood's re-awakening for which there was no cure, and thus far Aglarel was handling his blood's darker insinuations quite poorly. Worse still there was no one Aveil could approach for aid when Aglarel's rage got the better of him – she knew the truth of his origins, but only because she had guessed as much on her own. She couldn't say whether the High Prince would be furious or relieved to find out that she knew.

"Aglarel," she called to him softly, doing her absolute best to keep her composure – from her limited experience with his devil blood Aveil knew that an open display of fear only goaded stronger reactions out of the Fourth Prince and she knew he could kill her only too easily. "This is precisely what I mean. You don't want to hurt me, you are simply angry with what I have said and you've allowed that other side of you to wrest control."

"You presume much," he growled, the tips of his ceremonial fangs glinting ominously in the flickering candlelight near the dais. "Perhaps I grow tired of your opinionated assumptions. Perhaps I feel that you have forgotten your place and would do well to be reminded of it. You are in no place to question me, or my grasp on my own self control."

"Aglarel, put me down," Aveil bade him bluntly, opting for a more direct approach – often she forgot that subtleties were utterly lost on Aglarel when he submitted in part to his devil heritage. "I do not wish to employ force against you, but I will do so if I feel it is necessary."

To her dismay this had the opposite effect; the crimson washed through his vision and scorched her soul with its flame, a sure sign that he had lost the battle between logic and instinct. "Are you threatening me, little girl?"

"No," Aveil corrected, "just stating a fact."

While they had been arguing one of Aveil's hands had worked its way beneath the folds of Aglarel's shroud without his notice; at these words he cursed her and his eyes brightened in intensity, but Aveil enacted a preventative measure then and pressed her palm flat against the prince's bare chest. The magic warming on her fingertips burst forth from her skin at the contact, flooding Aglarel with a rush of holy magic that had him growling and twitching as though he had lost all control of his body. Somehow in the confusion the collar of Aveil's robes came free from his grasp and she landed gracefully upon her feet, the heels of her boots issuing a soft _clack _upon the sleek black tile underfoot, and staggering back a step or two Aglarel clutched his chest as he bent double, laboring for breath.

"You'll kill me with that one day," he gasped out, and when he opened his eyes weakly Aveil was pleased to see that they had returned to the cool silver of moonlight upon a still pond.

Aveil dropped her gaze to the ground, her shoulders hitching a little as she sighed despondently and said, "I know… I apologize. It's… it's becoming more and more difficult to subdue you as time goes by."

Aglarel recovered quickly enough, thanks in part because the spell's effects hadn't entered into his bloodstream – Aveil had employed that technique against him on one occasion before and it had incapacitated him for quite some time. When he was able to stand straight he ran one hand down his face in exasperation and shame, wiping the cold sweat from his brow, and asked dejectedly, "What will I do?"

"Remember who you are, and don't doubt your usefulness." Aveil longed to approach him but refrained from taking even a single step closer; perhaps it was the nature of the tasks he typically performed at the High Prince's behest, but Aglarel loathed physical contact of any kind. "I still have the utmost confidence that this will pass, and that over time you will learn to control the anger that you feel. Don't give up hope."

"This is why the High Prince chose not to incorporate me into his plans for the invasion," Aglarel observed bitterly. "Because he can no longer trust to my self control. If I lost myself in the throes of battle I could decimate the entire drow population, or I could massacre my own brothers. In my battle lust I would never know the difference."

It pained Aveil that all she could offer him in solace were her words. "The Most High loves you," she reminded him quietly. "His only concern is for the preservation of your well being. He would never exclude you to punish you. He means only to ensure that you are well."

The Fourth Prince blew a sigh, and with it he seemed to expel the final remnants of his own self pity; his eyes upon her were now businesslike, all hints of his recent vulnerability already forgotten. "Be that as it may, the High Prince should be warned that Lim still entertains an active liaison in Mourntrin Auvryndar. As Supreme Commander of the Army of Shade, Clariburnus will be in constant contact with the High Prince – we must get word to him that Mourn should be a target of the utmost priority when our forces arrive in Menzoberranzan. If we can apprehend Mourn, Lim will have no allies left to turn to."

Aveil considered briefly how much time had elapsed since the Fourth Prince had called her away from the palace balcony. "The army will have departed the enclave by now, and should be well on their way to the Underdark. I should return to the princess, and there are my lessons at the College to attend to. You will summon me if you have a need?"

"First and foremost," Aglarel assured her, "as always."

Seventh Prince Dethud rushed back to the Shadow Mages College the minute the Army of Shade had received the High Prince's approval to depart the city, slowing to engage in conversation with no one and keeping his head down in the hopes that no one would approach him. A fairly reserved but highly intuitive man, Dethud knew well enough when a situation called for the utmost urgency and this was surely one of those times; his necromancy study had been devoid of life when he had left it just an hour ago, but he felt certain this would no longer be the case when he returned.

She never listened to a word he said, why should she start now?

"Brother!" hailed a genial call from somewhere behind him, and Dethud hunched his shoulders and cursed beneath his breath at the sound; turning he watched as twin illusionists Mattick and Vattick hurried toward him, their faces displaying an appropriate amount of warmth with an undercurrent of reservation. This was something Dethud was used to – he was an oddity, much like Aglarel. He supposed that was why he and the Fourth Prince had always gotten on so well. That, or his occupation gave people great pause when interacting with him – necromancy was unpopular in the City of Shade, and prompted most people to display a great deal of discomfort in his presence.

"Hello," Dethud greeted them kindly enough, working hard to keep the impatience out of his voice – Dethud was by far the most tolerant of the Princes of Shade, owing, he guessed, to the prejudice his judgmental kin had often displayed toward him. "I hope you don't think me rude, but I do have a matter of great importance that I must see to. If this is not an emergency, do you think I might call on you later?"

The smile vanished from Mattick's face, and Vattick's eyes widened. It amused Dethud to think that this explanation he had offered them, arguably still quite kind, was perhaps among the rudest ones he had ever spoken.

"We hoped to inquire after your schedule." Vattick recovered his good nature relatively quickly, even managing to hitch a crooked sort of smile back into place; privately Dethud admired his determination, for most people would have dispensed with the pleasantries by now. "The High Prince has charged us, as well as the Sceptrana, with taking ownership of Brennus' classes while he is otherwise… indisposed. Unfortunately there is one still that conflicts for all of us – two evenings a week Brennus was holding a course teaching the languages of the lower planes, Abyssal and Infernal and the like… We hoped you would be willing to take control of it for us. I am already teaching an advanced alchemy study, Mattick an introductory illusion course, and the Sceptrana typically spends that time at the Assassin's Guild with Aglarel. Do you think - ?"

"Provide me with the specific dates and times," Dethud overrode him, allowing a hint of superiority to creep into his tone – he did have seniority over them both, after all. "I will see to it. For now, brothers, you must excuse me." And turning his back on their flabbergasted faces he picked up his pace, for they had continued along at a brisk speed while conversing and the College was now barely a block away. Fortunately they did not pursue him, and if their destinations were the same they did not attempt to keep up.

It was just as well, Dethud thought, whisking himself down the stairwell into the lowest levels of the College. Even the High Prince didn't ask him many questions, content most days to allow his necromancer son to carry on about his unorthodox pursuits in relative obscurity, so why should his behavior arouse any suspicion from his younger brothers?

Standing outside the great double doors that led into his private necromancy study, one hand upon the latch that would grant him entry and the other clenched into a tight fist at his side, Dethud hoped that today, of all days, they would heed his request for absolute privacy and stay away. If they didn't… well, he would have quite a lot of explaining to do.

Cringing, he flung the door open… and watched with a perfectly neutral expression as a whirlwind of black wings and auburn locks descended upon him, heralded by a high-pitched squeal of anticipation. A pair of skinny white arms encircled him at the waist and held fast, and then she was sobbing theatrically into the front of his robes.

"My dear, sweet prince!" she cried, her wings fluttering brokenly in her hysteria, barely keeping her aloft. "Oh, it's been ages! I'm so happy to see you! I thought when I called that you'd insist on me staying away!"

"I did," he reminded coldly, but with a reluctant sigh and a resigned shrug of his shoulders he wound one arm gently around her diminutive shoulders as his other hand settled uncertainly upon the wild, vibrant curls on top of her head. "You know it isn't safe for you here, Illyria."

Illyria.

In truth, he had been something of an unwilling companion of Illyria's for approximately four years, ever since she had killed her own father and struck out into the wilds of the Underdark at just sixteen years of age. The strange, unexplainable ability that she had been born with - her "fatespinning" ability, she called it – was viewed as blasphemous in the gloaming colony she lived in as a child, for her kind believed that the future was a mystical enigma that only the gods should be privy to and frowned upon those who attempted to alter their chosen course through any available means. As a child Illyria had retained a fairly cognizant grasp over her odd gift – if someone dropped something breakable she could influence its trajectory just so that it would land without breaking, and other harmless feats of this nature – but as she had grown older her ability had grown exponentially in strength. Her father, with whom she had never gotten on particularly well, was the abusive sort as Dethud understood things, and had been the type to use force against his wife and children on occasions when his temper got the better of him; one day the man had hurt Illyria's mother badly enough that she'd had to see a cleric for her injuries. The cleric had come to the house with a satchel full of medical supplies, in a hurry to see to Illyria's mother – Illyria had coldly warned her father to watch his step, and in the next instant he had seemingly tripped over nothing and landed face-down upon the unattended satchel. One of the cleric's sharper instruments had pierced the bag's fabric, as well as the unfortunate gloaming's heart, and that was that.

Shortly after an ever-curious Dethud had summoned an ice devil into his necromancy study, questioning the wicked Abyssal dwellers, as he often did, on the High Prince's behalf; the devil had heeded his call most unwillingly, and had been about to make a snack out of the unfortunate little she-gloaming and borne her along for the journey. In a rare act of mercy the Seventh Prince had simply slain the devil and allowed Illyria to live, and things had escalated rather quickly and unexpectedly from there – she had bounded across the room and flown into his arms, chattering on about how she was pleased to finally meet him and she had known all along that he would save her because she had _seen_ it and would it please him if she repaid his kindness with one of her own? And then of course one thing had led to another, for Illyria had always been persuasive and enrapturing in her own perverse way… but of course Dethud wasn't one to judge, for in this case their perversions were on in the same.

To this day he had yet to decide whether he had made the right decision in sparing her or if she was destined to be the death of him. It wasn't that Illyria didn't have her uses; at the tender age of twenty she was easily the most talented fatespinner Dethud had ever known, capable of altering fate's celestial tapestry in ways that often left him awestruck, and if you were an ally of hers you would more often than not find yourself succeeding in situations where the odds were surely stacked against you. It wasn't even that he didn't enjoy her company at times – Illyria could be quiet and attentive when she wanted to be, and was possessed of a morbid interest in his line of work that made her useful when he needed an extra hand or an ear to listen while he talked himself through the more difficult of his craft's tasks. No, his problem with Illyria was that she loved him – if her shallow, self-centered heart could be said to have a grasp on such a notion – and he cared for her not at all.

Well perhaps that was a bit of a stretch, he conceded silently to himself, running his fingers through her hair and marveling at the way her slight little body curled into his and the sigh of complete contentment she uttered while pressing her face into the front of his voluminous robes. It wasn't as though Dethud didn't entertain certain advantages for keeping Illyria close to him – for example, Illyria had a way of worming her obnoxious little self into people's hearts and curling up inside, and once she was there it was all but impossible to expel her. At his prompting she had enacted this talent of hers on multiple occasions – not against anyone within Shade Enclave, of course, for there was his reputation to consider – and succeeded in extracting much-needed information from several targets that Dethud would never have been able to rattle without her help. She was manipulative and deceitful, traits that when coupled with her cherubic face and innocent mannerisms gave her every advantage in situations where a more subtle approach was necessary; Illyria's feigned naivety served her well, for often those who involved themselves with her underestimated her intelligence and foolishly let their guard down in her presence. Her perpetual stubbornness made her unable to accept defeat in all things, and in dire situations where the odds were stacked against her she simply manipulated her sway over fate to reflect the outcome of her choosing – tell her she couldn't do something and Illyria would find a way to accomplish it, and Dethud had done just that on numerous occasions to reach a desired result via reverse psychology. Lastly, he was far from immune to her girlish charms – Dethud had an appetite for unconventional fare, perhaps on account of his unusual line of work, and the petite little gloaming was willing to satisfy him in ways that the prim and proper ladies of the Upper Court would never consent to.

"I got somethin' to tell you, though." Illyria craned her neck back to look him in the eye – so petite was her gloaming's body and so brutish were the Princes of Shade that she had to hover several inches off the ground to embrace him around the middle, and even then her head didn't quite reach his sternum. "Somethin' big. Somethin' important."

"Be that as it may," Dethud chastised her gently, careful to stroke her hair in a placating fashion as her wide blue eyes grew reproachful, "you can't simply admit yourself into this place whenever you wish. If anyone ever saw you they would ask a great deal of questions, ones that I am ill prepared to answer." He cocked an eyebrow as an afterthought and fixed her with a mildly disapproving look, adding, "And how did you breach the city's defenses this time, now that we're on the subject? I didn't open a portal for you."

Illyria scoffed and buried her face into his chest again; Dethud rolled his eyes, certain this gesture would escape her notice. "Please. Anyone with half a mind to come up here could manage it no problem – all you've gotta do is wait for some stupid would-be arcanist to contact the wrong lower plane and hitch a ride. Easy."

As much as he wanted to chastise her, Dethud silently conceded her logic and held his tongue – it simply wouldn't do to get her riled up so soon after her arrival, for Illyria had a way of clamming up if things didn't go her way and he didn't want to invest hours just getting her to feel talkative. If she had something of real import to tell him he wanted to ensure that he heard it, and sooner rather than later. Illyria was an immature little pest at times, but Dethud knew better than to doubt her usefulness to him.

"How clever of you," he congratulated her instead, and in response to his false praise she lifted her head and brushed her lips appreciatively from the hollow beneath his ear along the left side of his jaw to the point of his chin. At a prompting from one of her little hands pressing insistently upon the back of his neck the Seventh Prince declined his head and allowed her to kiss him passionately, unsurprised when her tongue traced his bottom lip suggestively.

"Can I stay a little while?" she asked, her voice husky in his ear, and as if to accentuate the true meaning of her words she pressed her sweet weight flat against his front so that he could feel her every slight curve.

Dethud smirked into her hair and trailed one hand down the length of her back. Well, it had been awhile…

"So," said Dethud, the hint of a businesslike tone creeping back into his voice – it was much later, and he was certain that Illyria was sated enough to be quite free with her tongue. "What was it that you came here to tell me, little one?"

At first glance she wasn't listening, or if she was it seemed she had no intention of gratifying his question with a response – she was splayed over his bare chest with her wings relaxed and spread along her back, and her thin white fingers were roaming his stomach without agenda. If Dethud didn't know her so well he would call her actions disrespectful, but she had a short attention span and a great facility for physical pleasures so he knew she was still basking in the afterglow of their liaison. He hoped she recovered her wits quickly – now that he had slaked his own lust, he was impatient to reach the crux of the real matter.

She traced the planes of his abdominal muscles idly with one fingertip, her face aglow with a kind of contented adoration. "You know about the book by now, don't you?"

Dethud propped himself up on his elbows, his brow furrowed in curiosity. Surely she was referring to the book that Brennus was now trapped within – the _Imaskarcana_, his brother Aglarel had called it. "Now how could you possibly know about _that_?" he breathed, trying and failing to keep the incredulity out of his voice, but if Illyria noticed the abrupt change in his tone she didn't let on. Tossing her rumpled sheet of heavy auburn hair over her shoulder she pressed her lips softly against his navel, her eyes still glazed with a lingering fog of happiness. Oh how he wished she would stay on task!

"Because I know where Deep Imaskar is," she confessed, her voice a lilting, girlish sigh. "I bet not even your brothers know that, do they?"

Dethud lay back down and idly combed his fingers through Illyria's wild curls, doing his best to keep her in an agreeable mood. He was about to launch into a rigorous stream of questioning and doubted that this would be much to her liking, but his first priority was to his fellow princes and if Illyria knew something that might aid him in recovering Brennus it was his duty to coerce her into telling him. "I am not familiar with Deep Imaskar," he told her honestly. "Tell me about it, little one."

Illyria shimmied down his torso, her deep blue eyes bright with mischief, and snickered, "Maybe later." And then of course she couldn't answer any of his questions, because for a little while her mouth was otherwise occupied. Again, Dethud allowed the diversion.

"Don't you keep records of other civilizations up here?" Illyria asked jokingly not long after – she was sitting up now, her bare legs draped languidly across his lap and a bedsheet wrapped around her lithe upper body. "Do you know _anything_ about Imaskar?"

The Seventh Prince resisted the ever-present urge to roll his eyes yet again, frustrated by her show of superiority. It wasn't often that she had the upper hand in their dealings, either professional or intimate – the notion that perhaps she was more informed in this instance than he was did not sit well with him. He chose to exert a smidgen of his authority then – normally this would result in disaster, but her so-called love for him made her beholden to him in most scenarios. "I think I've been patient enough this afternoon, Illyria – now that I have accommodated your desires, don't you think it's time you did the same for me?"

The insatiable smirk returned to her face then but she didn't dare cross him; twining a strand of her mussed-up hair around her index finger she finally obliged him, for which Dethud was unendingly thankful. "Entry of the Gods mean anything to you?"

He considered this, for it did spark something in his long-lived memory – something one of the deceased Queens of Thultanthar had said once? "The uprising of Imaskari slaves? Yes. Desperation and prayer will grant mortals any number of things, from damnation to limitless power – in this case the god Ptah raised the slaves above the mortal coil and created a host of divine minions, who then overtook the Imaskari artificers and slaughtered them in droves. It was the end of what had been a most prestigious civilization until that point."

"Well they didn't die." Illyria blew a sigh as though bored by their talk and lay down beside him again, her hands aimlessly roaming his torso; Dethud allowed this interaction, if only because he wanted to ensure that she remained agreeable enough to give him answers. "There was a group of them who ran to the Underdark and founded another city deep below the ground, in a cavern that they've got guarded by all of these ancient spells… You probably wouldn't be able to get in if you tried."

Something about these words, some hidden inflection that perhaps Dethud sensed with a little-used ulterior sense, made him wonder if there was more to her observations than she let on. "You mean that you've been there. You've been to Deep Imaskar." Her answering smile was every bit as mischievous as her wandering fingertips, which were now tracing the length of his collar bone, and he knew he had guessed correctly. "Explain something to me, then – if the artificers' new city is defended by such powerful protective enchantments, how have you been able to bypass them and come and go as you please? The Imaskari wizard-kings were mighty spellcasters – many of them with talents to exceed even the most seasoned of Thultanthar's shadow sorcerers. Their city must be well guarded indeed, if the outside world knows so little of its existence."

Illyria gave him a withering look, as though something he had said was offensive to her in some way. "How do I ever get anywhere? Fate likes to leave me little breadcrumbs all over the place – I just follow along."

It was a strange – and undeniably vague – explanation, but there was logic behind it and so again Dethud showed her leniency. It was not the first time Illyria had trusted blindly to her unconventional abilities and been rewarded for her persistence in the end. "So fate led you to Deep Imaskar… and you found the _Imaskarcana_ there."

"The book, yeah, only there isn't just the one. Volt says there are seven, but he doesn't have 'em all…" Illyria's feather-light touches abruptly ceased, prompting the Seventh Prince to look up; the gloaming's blue eyes were clouded with concern, a most uncharacteristic expression for her. "But he knows you've got it now, and he's coming after it soon. I don't know when, but… it can't be long now."

Dethud turned onto his right side and propped himself up onto one elbow; the bedclothes slipped a little and predictably Illyria's eyes raked his newly-exposed flesh, but he steadfastly ignored her. At last they were getting somewhere. "Who is Volt?"

"He's the new Lord Artificer," Illyria explained readily enough, though her eyes were wandering and her voice was dripping with newfound distraction; Dethud hitched the sheet up to his navel in an attempt to reclaim her attention, which she offered reluctantly. "Well he was just a scribe and a scholar until a few weeks ago, but then one of his bosses got permission to break the Great Seal and send out an exhibition team into the tunnels closest to the cavern their city is housed in… Volt was part of the expedition team, and while they were out there they somehow managed to track down one of those Im-mask-arr-canha thingies. When they got back he was given permission to study it in kind of limited doses, but Volt is a smart guy and he learned a lot from it in a really short time… Then one day he decided he wanted to be in control so he just sort of put himself in charge, and that was that."

The necromancer was certain there was more to the story, and made this assumption quite plain. "And no one contested him?" he pressed, skepticism apparent in every word. "The Deep Imaskari were content to accept his rule?"

Illyria fixed him with a very serious look when she said, "No one is strong enough to stop him now – why do you think I'm here? Honestly…" She grumbled quietly to herself for several seconds in a soft enough voice to avoid Dethud's displeasure, but his eyes upon her face were severe and if there was one thing Illyria couldn't stand it was the prospect of upsetting him in any way. "If the guys that rule his city can't even stand up to him, you and your brothers don't stand a chance – and I'm not just saying that. The guy he replaced has one of those books hidden somewhere and he's been studying it for years, and even _he_ couldn't stop Volt. All it took was a couple of words in some dead language I've never heard, and he had Illis' spell rebounding back at him… It was kind of terrifying, honestly." Her eyes softened then and she scooted a little closer, and wrapping her skinny arms around his neck she added sadly, "It made me worry about you."

Though nothing now interested Dethud so much as squeezing every last detail out of Illyria he took her face in his hands and ravished her lips, her cheeks, her throat with a burning trail of passionate kisses then, knowing that the greater his display of affection the more she would consent to share; time passed for Illyria in a haze of physical pleasure and for Dethud in a whirlwind of unanswered questions, until the candles in his bedchamber burned low and beyond the ever-present veil of protective shadows that enshrouded the enclave the moon rose, a barely-visible sliver of cold silver in the sky.

He had forgotten just how taxing a prolonged visit from Illyria could be, both mentally and physically, though of course he did not mention as much to her.

"But how does he know we've come into possession of one of the _Imaskarcana_?" Dethud rumbled, feeling quite fatigued now but with a half-full glass of Netherese heartwine to keep him from drifting off. "No agents of Deep Imaskar have found their way into the enclave – if they had the High Prince would surely know of their presence, or at the very least my brother Aglarel."

Illyria was curled in the fetal position with one arm flung possessively over his waist and her head propped against one of the necromancer's shoulders; she yawned widely before answering him, a reflex that incited a great wash of relief to flood Dethud's insides. Surely there was no creature in all the world quite as insatiable as the little gloaming he now held in his arms. "How did the book get here? I assume you know that much, at least."

Dethud was too enthralled in these most recent developments to chastise her for her lack of respect for his station. "Recently a number of drow assassins were led into our city by the divine blessings of their repulsive goddess, the Spider Queen Lolth; one of them brought the _Imaskarcana_ with him, and gave it to Lim Tal'eyve. He is a drow-turned-shade who entered into a mutually beneficial business relationship with the Most High, though now I suspect he will soon be executed on multiple counts of conspiracy and treason. The High Prince does not suffer traitors in our midst – he is very untrusting of outsiders, and for good reason."

"So a drow brought another drow a book that isn't a drow book," Illyria summarized in a blunt voice, and again Dethud rolled his eyes. How she tried his patience!

"As you say," he agreed through tightly gritted teeth.

"And you never stopped to ask yourself how that drow came by the book in the first place?" she asked incredulously, and realization dawned so suddenly upon him that the Seventh Prince actually gasped aloud and bolted upright, thus dislodging the lounging gloaming from her resting place with an unceremonious squeal.

"By the grace of the Night Mother," Dethud breathed, now so furious that his voice was but a foreboding whisper, "it was _you_! You gave that drow – Mourn, he was called – the _Imaskarcana_! You told him where he could find Lim, you encouraged him to infiltrate Thultanthar!"

"Now what would make you think that?!" Illyria screeched, wrapping one of the bed sheets tightly around her body with quick, exaggerated movements, and this time the Seventh Prince actually did roll his eyes even knowing that she was watching.

"Miserable creature," said Dethud, his arms crossed over his chest and wrath rolling off him in nearly-tangible waves, "tell me the truth this very instant – tell me quickly, and tell me fully – if you value your life. The Princes of Shade are not in the habit of accommodating others with no thought of gain and you know that your answers are vital to my brothers and me, so _tell me_."

"_Fine_," she snapped tearfully, though he sincerely doubted she was at all wounded by the displeasure coloring his tone. "If you must know… he's _fated_. I knew it the first time I laid eyes on him, so I knew I couldn't just let the Imaskari kill him without at least trying to interfere… Fate has something in store for him, something that might shape the fortunes and futures for everyone on Faerun, and I had to intervene on his behalf. Do you think I come across someone that fate-touched every day?!"

Dethud bit back his impatience and forced himself to consider Illyria's confession, and though he was hardly pleased by her rationale he had to grant it credence. One of the curious abilities Illyria possessed enabled her to glimpse the karmic value a person had been born with – their ability to influence fate in great and terrible ways – and the last time she had admitted to coming into contact with any such person she had been talking about Dethud himself. Looking back over the course of their few short years together Dethud couldn't say that he had had any significant impact on the course along which the entire world progressed, but Illyria had once told him that it often took years for the fate-touched to even recognize their worth, much less act upon it in any sort of significant way. If she had reason to believe that this drow, Mourntrin Auvryndar, possessed the ability to incite real change in the world, Dethud had more reason than most to believe her.

"That doesn't excuse your trespasses here," Dethud insisted reproachfully, crooking an eyebrow in her direction. "By your own words you have admitted to aiding an enemy of Thultanthar in gaining access to our city without permission – do you know that while he was here delivering the _Imaskarcana_ to that traitor that he attempted to assassinate my eldest brother's new bride? And in doing so he inadvertently put to death one of the High Prince's most trusted and beloved emissaries. By your own words you ought to be branded a traitor as well."

Illyria wailed mournfully and burst into a fresh wave of tears, burying her face against his bare chest yet again and sobbing in what she undoubtedly hoped was a heart-wrenching fashion; Dethud heaved a sigh and wished with all his might that they could have a mature conversation just once in his lifetime. "But Prince!" she cried, quivering sorrowfully in his arms, "don't you see?! That's why I'm here now – to tell you everything, to make sure that you're prepared for whatever is to come! I've seen glimpses of the future – the parts that are certain to come to pass now, no matter what you do – and I'm_ afraid_ for you. There's nothing that can be done to keep Volt from coming here, because he wants that Imaskar-whatsit and he'll stop at nothing to take it back with him! So if you've got it, make sure you give it to someone else – you don't want to be in his way when he gets here!"

"But I haven't got it," Dethud corrected, and lifting her head Illyria fixed him with the full weight of her languishing gaze.

"Then you'd better warn whoever does."


	6. Chapter Six - Dreaming Wide Awake

Their procession was devoid of fanfare; they traveled under cover of darkness, for a large portion of the senior blademasters were also shades and the harsh sunlight was draining to both their health and their stamina, and rested within thick curtains of magically-conjured shadows during the day. His brothers – and the majority of the members of the Army of Shade, for that matter – grumbled quietly at being exposed to the sun and marched on with their shoulders hunched and their eyes downcast, but Fifth Prince Clariburnus was quite the opposite. When they were marching his pace was the fastest, and often Escanor had to call out to him to slow down and rejoin the bulk of their forces; when they were relaxing from yet another days' grueling march he was pacing restlessly to and fro beneath the impenetrable shadow canopy, too jittery to rest or even to be idle. The world beyond the boundaries of Thultanthar excited him into a near-frenzy, and delusions of grandeur earned by means of conquest consistently occupied his thoughts.

War! In truth Clariburnus had little love for diplomacy, and was often bored by discussions which centered upon solving conflict through peaceable means. He was a child of war, for it was in the midst of conflict that he had been born and that same chaos had molded him into the man that he now was. His mother was First Queen Deande, a noblewoman from Chult with Netherese ancestry – her grandfather had been High Prince of the Netherese enclave of Xinlenal, the first floating city spawned when the Empire of Netheril began experimenting with the ancient powers of the mythallars – and it was a little-known fact that the High Prince's first wife was a great lover of war. She had been the catalyst for Telamont's decision to besiege many of the lands surrounding Chult, and these conquests had brought wider boundaries and exotic, fertile lands under the banner of Thultanthar; Clariburnus himself had been a commanding officer in many of those campaigns, despite being very young of age at the time, and had found much glory and prestige on the battlefield. Despite the unquestionable success of those sieges, that same conflict had ultimately spelled the end of the High Prince's marriage to Queen Deande. The late First Queen had never dealt well with authority figures, and had never entirely submitted to the Most High as the authority figure in her life.

On the morning of the sixth day of their march Clariburnus stood at the extreme edge of the shadow canopy under which the majority of their forces took their rest, squinting through the heavy black vapor and watching the altogether foreign spectacle of the sun rising in the cerulean sky. He could feel Escanor's uncertain presence lingering a few paces behind him, watching with growing discomfort the distant star ascending in the heavens and scorching the earth; such a sight had always made his eldest brother noticeably edgy, whereas Clariburnus had always been morbidly fascinated by it.

"Will you commune with the High Prince this day?" inquired Escanor in a low voice – behind them, many of the commanding officers of the Army of Shade had already succumbed to sleep.

Clariburnus held his left arm aloft, the better to study the translucent black band that encircled his wrist. Prior to their departure he and the three of his brothers who had also been named the High Prince's battle captains had accepted a shadow bond, an implement that enabled them to communicate with the other member of the bonded pair regardless of the distance between them. As Supreme Commander of the Army of Shade it was Clariburnus who had bonded to the Most High, for his was the voice of authority on all matters of conquest despite the fact that Escanor typically outranked him. Predictably Escanor had bonded with his wife – the better to assuage her fears, for her empathetic mental link to all of the High Prince's progeny would cause her undue stress for the duration of their conquest; Yder had bonded with Rivalen, whom he looked to in all spiritual matters to provide him with the goddess Shar's will when he could not hear her voice, and ever-capricious Rapha had bonded with Aglarel, the only one among their number with the patience to temper Rapha's volatile mood swings with common sense.

Their march had gone well, but still the Fifth Prince was hesitant. "How soon before we are underground?"

"I have dispatched the scouts, but they have yet to return," Escanor told him informatively. "It has not been long since their departure… An hour? They left just before the blaze was struck in the sky."

Clariburnus mulled that over, surveying the sun's position above them with a practiced eye. He supposed his brother's guess was a little high, but he did not mention as much – of the High Prince's sons, Clariburnus was easily the most knowledgeable of the world that existed beyond Thultanthar. "We have nothing to report," Clariburnus pointed out at length, "save the fact that thus far the march has gone smoothly and without incident. I will wait until we have retreated below ground before I contact him – I don't want to disturb him when there is no news. I daresay he has greater concerns than our mundane days of travel."

Escanor uttered a sad sigh – there could be no doubt that Clariburnus was referring to the fate of their youngest brother, which had pained both of them greatly. Prior to the events that brought about his disgrace Brennus had been both wise and amiable, and a great ally to both of them. "I have spoken with Soleil on that matter… as yet the situation has not changed."

"And the drow is still a prisoner of the Most High's?" asked the Fifth Prince, seething.

"Yes," Escanor confirmed, his tone no less steely.

"Would that that part of the situation, at least, changed sooner rather than later, and in a way that is something less than favorable to Lim," said Clariburnus darkly. "I cannot help but feel that his usefulness to the High Prince has long since run its course – if he was at all useful to begin with, that is."

The First Prince kept his silence on the matter, but Clariburnus could read him well and took that silence for wordless agreement. They continued to watch the sun's measured rise in the sky from the safety of the shadow canopy in companionable silence, Clariburnus diligently scouring the horizon for any sign of the returning scouts with more than a little impatience.

It was an hour later when the first of the runners made it back to camp; Escanor had retired to take his rest only minutes before, and now it was Yder who stood with Clariburnus as the Fifth Prince studied one of the maps of the Anauroch desert that one of the senior historians had provided prior to their departure. It was Razum who arrived, a young Shadovar archer of whom Clariburnus was somewhat fond and whom he had promoted only recently to captain of the archers who served the Army of Shade; he had shed his cloak and gloves, which he had tucked into his belt, and his brow was slick with sweat. When he had downed a glass of water and all but collapsed into a chair near the table, Clariburnus saw fit to question him.

"Damn this heat," Razum cursed, mopping up his brow with a scrap of cloth. "This sun is unbearable. Already I long for the perpetual shadows of our home!"

"What have you found?" Clariburnus asked, crossing his arms over his chest, and Razum looked up; he had long black hair that he wore tied back from his face by a leather thong and eyes as dark and dull as coal. Shifting his chair he brought himself nearer to the table, and with one fingertip he indicated key locations on the map as he spoke.

"As it stands now we are here, at the southernmost spur of The Sword," he began, referring to the extreme southern edge of the Anauroch Desert. "Roughly an hour's march southwest we will find ourselves out of the desert – we are but half a day's steady march from the Well of Dragons, and from our entrance into the topmost caverns of the Underdark, my lord."

Yder crooked an eyebrow in Clariburnus' direction, a question forming in his eyes. "The Well of Dragons?"

The Fifth Prince nodded, pleased. "A gaping maw in the earth which the surface dwellers believe has no bottom, and a landmark that the neighboring elves of Evereska have feared for generations. Local folklore suggests that it is the entryway to an underground vault of treasure that an ancient dragon calls home – hence the name – but of course there is no proof to support these claims. It is through the Well that we will take to the Underdark – once we have our pace will quicken, for we will only need to cease our march when we have a real need of rest."

The other scouts continued to trickle back into camp over the course of the next half hour, accepting water skins and light meals to replenish their strength; their testimonies were of little use or interest to Clariburnus, who had privately planned to enter the Underdark via the Well entrance all along. When the last of the scouts had returned and everyone who had struck out to traverse the desert beneath the blistering sun was accounted for he shared as much with Yder, who nodded along as though he was hardly surprised.

"Dragons," mused the Sixth Prince, stroking his chin thoughtfully with one hand, his eyes fixed unblinkingly upon the gently-undulating canopy of deep shadows overhead. "Truth be told I have fought only one, Shaepulanderex of the Dragon Coast… the revelation of the princess' true parentage drove me to familiarize myself with the lore, but otherwise my knowledge on the subject is quite limited."

Clariburnus found himself nodding along, for there wasn't a prince among them who hadn't conducted similar research upon learning that Soleil was descended from the Dracon, long considered to be the oldest and strongest members of dragonkind. A couple of years previous, before Soleil had become betrothed to Escanor or Phendrana had even landed himself in their midst, Aglarel, Clariburnus, Yder, and Dethud had journeyed to the volcanic fields along the Dragon Coast with a mind to pursue an alliance between Thultanthar and the chromatic dragons who had gathered in force on the shores of the Dragonmere west of Ilipur. Their negotiations had soon come to blows and during the battle Soleil had exhibited strange and unexplainable abilities that had eventually been revealed to be draconic in nature; Lamorak had performed another Determining that included a thorough examination of her blood, only to find that the young princess was half-Dracon. Each of them had conducted private study on the subject for only Brennus and his penchant for self-education and his deep-seeded interest in obscure history was well-versed in that elusive race; Soleil herself spoke little of her parentage and utilized those mysterious powers very rarely, but having been present at the awakening of her lineage both Yder and Clariburnus had never forgotten the events of that fateful day.

"Dragons are solitary beasts," Clariburnus responded at length, hoping Yder hadn't noticed the pause during which the he had been lost in his musings. "In the event that the Well happens to be occupied at all only one of the creatures will be dwelling there – only when they breed and when they are hatchlings can they be found in greater numbers. One wyrm will hardly serve as an ample challenge for four Princes of Shade, even if it is long lived and venerable."

Yder smirked then, prompting his brother to raise an eyebrow in silent question. "You are restless," he pointed out bluntly. "Perhaps it would be to the benefit of us all if there _was_ a dragon slumbering in the Well – I daresay you could do with the exercise before battle joins in the tunnels outside Menzoberranzan."

There was no denying Yder's claims; just the thought of finding himself at odds with a beast as ancient and mighty as a dragon made Clariburnus feel almost giddy with anticipation, and keeping idle beneath the protective shadow canopy while the sun slowly traversed the sky from one horizon to the opposite made him feel increasingly impatient. Clariburnus wasn't known for his patience, that much was true – he was a man of action, and few activities made him feel as alive as the exhilaration and danger associated with a well-fought battle. He found himself in silent agreement with Yder – how fortunate he would count himself if this night he was drawing his weapon against a dragon! He habitually sharpened it himself as he trusted no other man to adequately service his blade, and though its edge still retained its deadly gleam from the last maintenance he had performed he took a whetstone to it as the sun inched toward the western horizon.

"What will you do?" asked Escanor, when the sky was a stunning tapestry of livid crimson shot with dusky violet clouds.

Clariburnus, his magnificent black glass glaive already strapped in place diagonally across his back, had already made his mind up hours before. "I will go on ahead and determine whether or not the Well of Dragons is aptly named. Our preferred entrance into the Underdark is only an hour's march from here, though I suspect I will move rather more quickly without thousands of soldiers at my back. Bring them along when the sky has stopped burning and proceed to the outermost spur of the forest. I will meet you there when my investigation is complete."

His eldest brother nodded along, agreeable enough but still thoughtful, before uttering the words that Clariburnus had been hoping he wouldn't hear: "Take Rapha with you – a little conflict will work wonders for his temperament. We need to bring him to heel before we reach Menzoberranzan."

The Fifth Prince protested, though he knew he would hardly overturn Escanor's decision. "I would prefer to see to the dragon myself, if there is one."

"I know," answered Escanor with an indulgent little chuckle, "and I hardly think you will need his assistance, but this isn't about me being overly cautious – this is about letting our capricious younger brother slake his lust for battle before his tendency for violence becomes a poison that seeps into our ranks. And do not concern yourself with whether or not he will follow your lead – he will be obedient to you in this or I will send him straight back to Thultanthar, where he will answer to the Most High for his intransigence. I have ensured that he knows who he is beholden to."

Clariburnus supposed that would have to be good enough for him – though his was the voice of authority within the Army of Shade he was still obliged to heed Escanor's wisdom on matters of state. If his eldest brother insisted on Rapha joining him, Clariburnus would simply have to allow it.

"You heard him," snapped the Fifth Prince over his shoulder, who was not at all fooled by Rapha's expression of disinterest and knew his impertinent brother had been eavesdropping from a distance all along. "Let us go now and see what we might find."

The captains of each battalion were rousing their ranks as Clariburnus and Rapha struck out from the Shadovar camp; the ever-shifting sand rendered their footfalls soundless, and beyond the boundaries of their campsite the desert at twilight was almost eerily silent. The difference in their demeanors was as pronounced as the dissimilarities between night and day; Rapha kept his head down and followed his older brother's lead silently, occasionally shooting disconcerted glances up at the darkening sky overhead as though expecting the sun to suddenly reappear and raze the earth at any moment. Clariburnus, however, watched each star wink into view with mounting fascination as the celestial tapestry continued to darken, wishing for all he was worth that the High Prince authorized him to participate in more affairs that led him outside the gates of Thultanthar – he detested the sun just as much as the rest of his kin, but there was something about the surface world that piqued his curiosity no matter how many times he visited it.

By the time they reached the outermost edge of the forest in which was concealed the secret elven enclave of Evereska stars were spilled like diamond dust all across the dark sky and the moon was an almost-perfect silver sphere casting cool white rays through the black branches; Rapha scowled up at the light as though it had caused him some sort of personal offense. Clariburnus ignored him, skirting between tree trunks as silent as a specter, his eyes darting from shadow to shadow cautiously as he led them forward, and if there were any predators lurking in the undergrowth they did well to avoid crossing paths with the Princes of Shade.

It was about an hour – precisely as Razum had suggested – before they reached a break in the trees and found themselves in a moonlight-dappled clearing; they had wended their way so deeply into the forest that there was no visible way to determine where one trees' branches ended and the boughs of another began, inspiring within Clariburnus the altogether foreign sensation of mild claustrophobia. This portion of the wood was old and untamed; fallen leaves were strewn about the forest floor in quantities so great that the earth was obscured from view, and brambles and wildflowers grew wild and unchecked everywhere they looked. In the center of the clearing was a crumbling stone monument that at first glance seemed to be a tomb of some kind, but advancing several paces Clariburnus realized the weather-beaten slabs were arranged in a rough circle with a dark, cavernous entrance yawning up at the sky like the maw of a long-forgotten beast. The stones were ancient and choked with weeds, and crouching down in the undergrowth Clariburnus ran a hand along the uneven slabs – they were black as charcoal, but only because they had been charred and fused together.

"What could have caused this?" wondered Rapha, idly brushing soot off his hands.

Clariburnus straightened and peered down into the well's opening – the darkness was so deep that even the light from the almost-full moon couldn't penetrate it. "A dragon's breath can shape the land to its liking, and the older the wyrm is the more deadly its breath can be to the unassuming traveler. Perhaps there is some truth to the rumors that a dragon dwells within after all." He cast an appraising look over his shoulder, perhaps determining his younger brother's readiness, before adding, "Follow my lead – we will go quickly and quietly. If we catch the wyrm sleeping, so much the better – Escanor and Yder will be bringing the army along behind us, and we would do well to be done with this as swiftly as possible."

"And if it is awake…" Rapha chose not to finish his sentence but traced his thumb over the pommel of the enchanted katana sheathed at his hip, his eyes glittering with excitement.

As he leapt nimbly from the crumbling stones and plummeted into the fathomless darkness of the well, Clariburnus found himself hoping that the dragon dwelling below was indeed slumbering and would be easily caught unawares – he didn't fancy being caught between the dragon's wrath and his brother's devastating spells of evocation, especially not in the close quarters of subterranean tunnels.

It was apparent right away just why the moon's rays had been unable to reveal the well's secrets; Clariburnus descended into the dank underground confines for nearly a full minute before he found the bottom, touching down safely thanks to the ensorcelled charm engraved with the Tanthul family crest that he wore always around his neck. One glance up the shaft of the well was all it took for him to confirm that these were depths even the sun's most glaring rays would never be able to touch – though the moon shone brightly above the forests bordering Evereska he could glimpse not even a pinprick of its cool silver light, could barely even track his brother's soundless descent into the darkness just beside him with his keen shade's eyesight. The corridor in which they had landed smelled strongly of a deep, long-undisturbed earth, but that was indisputably stone beneath Clariburnus' feet; he scuffed the toe of his boot along the floor and blinked down at it, his eyes adjusting swiftly to the almost total darkness that surrounded them, to find that a wealth of dust covered that smooth surface.

"This tunnel hasn't been used in quite some time," Rapha observed in a careful undertone, and Clariburnus nodded once in agreement but otherwise did not respond. Were they really as alone in the depths as they seemed? Was there more than dust lurking in the blackness of the corridor that sloped almost imperceptibly downward in front of them?

He flashed his younger brother a simple hand gesture to indicate that he would take the lead before putting the shaft of the well at his back and setting off; Rapha fell obediently into step about a yard behind him and slightly to the right, ensuring that Clariburnus would be in no danger of being struck if the hexblade had a need to bring his weapon to bear suddenly. The further they traversed the corridor the more the stench of ancient earth lessened, for which the Fifth Prince was exceedingly grateful - it had permeated the well so thickly that its odor made him want to gag – but the deeper they delved the more prominent another horrid smell became. It wasn't until the pair of princes was deep enough underground that phosphorescent mushrooms began to crop up here and there that Clariburnus discovered what that stench was that clung so stubbornly to the insides of his nostrils – truly odorous fungi which appeared a sickly and rotting green hue when cast in the light of their luminous cousins and emitting a miasma not unlike foul meat. Clariburnus cast his watering eyes about the passageway, if only to keep his mind off the stink that made him feel so intensely nauseous, to find that there were ornamental stone columns lining the hall at regular intervals. He passed his hand experimentally over one as he passed, and his palm came away slick with condensation and a thick layer of dust.

Down they plunged, the maddening silence of the underground pressing unpleasantly against their ears, until the passage widened drastically and the floor simply ended in a sheer drop into an endless abyss.

"By the grace of Shar," breathed Rapha wondrously, and dropping his hand from the hilt of his katana he gazed around with awestruck eyes.

Whole villages would have fit comfortably in the cavern they now found themselves in, with plenty of room to spare; absolute darkness claimed both floor and ceiling, for the meager phosphorescence emanating from the many mushrooms growing from the earthen walls simply wasn't sufficient to light such a limitless expanse. It appeared the cavern was every bit as wide as it was tall, for though his eyes swept the blackness diligently Clariburnus could not glimpse the other side; it was as though the ledge upon which they stood was the entrance to the Nine Hells themselves, fathomless and forbidding. Despite the lack of any visible ceiling or floor Clariburnus could just make out the faint sound of dripping – condensation from the walls, or from unseen stalactites lurking in the darkness above? – and it echoed in a way that suggested there was a subterranean pool somewhere far below. As he marveled at the rhythmic, almost hypnotic cadence of the dripping water resonating from the dark portions of the chamber his gaze could not penetrate, a sudden realization dawned on him.

"I know where we are," said Clariburnus, his murmur carrying an unmistakable note of certainty.

"Where?" Rapha shot back in a skeptical whisper.

"The Heart of Darkness." The pulsating tattoo of the dripping water, strongly reminiscent of an unchanging heartbeat, lent credence to the idea. "Beholders carved these corridors and caverns out of the rock, sometime after Karsus' Folly but before Thultanthar returned from its sojourn to the Plane of Shadow. The aberrations surrendered their territory to an ancient subterranean-dwelling dragon – Orukurtz, whose mere gaze petrifies the dimwitted and whose breath erodes the very fabric of the mind – in exchange for their lives. He has dwelt here for centuries – history paints a colorful tale of his triumph over and subsequent enslavement of the beholder clan that shaped these passageways, but there is no proof of that."

"A rumor that never ceases to amuse me," rumbled an earth-quaking reply from the impenetrable dark, in a voice that might have frozen the shadowblood coursing through both princes' veins, "yet I can assure you that there is no truth to it. I find beholders' minds too mundane for seeking stimulating conversation, yet they are too stubborn to be well-suited for slavery. Unfortunately they taste just as wretched as they look, rather like overcooked cabbage, so they hardly make for a satisfying meal… In the end I drove them out of these tunnels and commanded them never to return, as they added little to the décor."

Rapha cursed beneath his breath and his hand flew to the hilt of his sheathed weapon; Clariburnus' eyes scoured the encroaching darkness, willing the shadows to yield to the intensity of his gaze, but in the end he glimpsed nothing more than he had before. Once he was certain he caught a fleeting glance of a pair of slitted jewel-bright eyes staring out of the depths far below the ledge upon which they stood, but the moment came and went so quickly that Clariburnus wondered whether he had imagined it from the outset. The low rumble akin to tons of rock shifting in the deep confused the Fifth Prince momentarily, until it occurred to him that it was the ancient wyrm's derisive laugh he was hearing.

"Your skin is black as Menzoberranyr granite, yet you are no drow," observed Orukurtz at length, at once sounding nonplussed yet intensely thoughtful. "Your recollections are too old for you to be mortals – they are nearly as old as my own – yet in your eyes I fail to see the wisdom of the ancients so I think you cannot be among the divines. What creatures are these that so foolishly invite themselves into my domain, with wills comparable to the illithids and whose strength rivals that of the archons?"

With the element of surprise utterly lost to them Clariburnus resolved to answer, hoping that in conversing he might at least determine where their adversary was lurking; there was no movement in the darkness, no other clue to suggest where the danger would strike from. "We are Princes from Thultanthar, the Kingdom of Shadow. I am Fifth Prince Clariburnus, Supreme Commander of the Army of Shade, and this is Tenth Prince Rapha, Hexblade Prime; we serve High Prince Telamont Tanthul."

"You are shadow creatures." The great dragon's words were almost incomprehensible, so deep was the timbre of his voice, but there was no mistaking the disdain in his tone; Rapha bristled, ever-defensive, and Clariburnus trod on his foot to keep him from acting out of anger. "You are a long way from your castle in the sky, and the darkness that characterizes the underground is far different than the Realm of Shadow. Why have you come here? You are uninvited and unwelcome, as I have already said."

Clariburnus saw no reason to conceal the real meaning for their unannounced intrusion. "By order of our sovereign we are to war with Menzoberranzan; the Well of Dragons was our closest point of entry into the Underdark, else we would not have disturbed you. You have only to allow us to pass, and we will leave you in peace."

There issued a rhythmic tapping of cruel claws upon stone, presumably as their adversary mulled over their proposition and enjoyed their state of quiet unease; the chamber amplified the sound tenfold and the echo reverberated in the princes' ears, making it altogether impossible to determine precisely where the sound was coming from. "And have you brought gifts for Orukurtz? Some token of your esteem that might persuade me to allow this intrusion?"

Rapha's rage at this insinuation was an almost-tangible thing, but Clariburnus didn't have the discipline to reprimand him; to suggest that the Princes of Shade should buy their passage was a grievous insult to their nobility, a slight that neither of them was prepared to abide. It didn't help that they had departed the Shadovar camp earlier in the evening spoiling for a fight, and now that they were here nothing could dissuade them from their predetermined course.

"Regrettable," lamented Orukurtz, as though somehow he had already predicted how they would respond, and despite his words he did not sound the least bit remorseful. "I suppose I will make do with your weapons and the various enchanted baubles I sense on your persons… They will be all too easy to remove from your corpses."

Clariburnus sensed rather than saw the imminent danger that was approaching and acted purely on impulse – instead of sprinting back the way they had come and leaving himself vulnerable in the narrow corridor he stepped right up to the precipice and leapt into the fathomless darkness below. Dank, stale air rushed past him as he plummeted down into a deep, unrelenting blackness the likes of which he had never known – something huge shifted in the shadows and hissed, jaws snapping as he sailed past – and just when he was considering a shadow-walk to regain his bearings he touched down on a wide stone platform which he estimated to be some seven hundred feet below the ledge he had hurtled down from. There were a few more of the phosphorescent fungi growing out of the rock face, casting a meager amount of blue-white light over the platform – just enough for him to see by, and Clariburnus was able to glimpse the rough shape and proportion of the ancient dragon Orukurtz.

In the confusing intermingling of encroaching darkness and blue-white phosphorescence the dragon's scales appeared to glitter like remarkably frail crystal, the dark purple of a deep bruise but with the handsome sheen of a rich black sapphire; when the mighty wyrm ruffled its great wings in irritation Clariburnus was momentarily mesmerized by the array of kaleidoscopic colors that refracted off its glassy hide and onto the sheer rock face nearby. Its legs were short but thick as ancient tree trunks, ending in horrid black claws longer than the shade prince's forearm and as wide as his torso; as he watched those tearing claws razed the too-smooth gray stone, leaving pale gray scars in the surface of the ancient rock. Its tail was curled close to its body, rendering it impossible for Clariburnus to assess just how long that extremity might be, and it writhed like a viper poised to strike as the meager illumination glinted ominously off its scythe-like tip. Its neck was slender and graceful, its face long and narrow with amethyst eyes glaring forbiddingly down at him; as it hissed out an unwelcoming sound the Fifth Prince was afforded a glimpse of its teeth, silver and severe as knives. Were it standing straight its head might have brushed the underside of the great balcony of the Palace Most High – some three stories high! – and its wingspan dwarfed any other of its kind Clariburnus had ever laid eyes on.

Briefly Clariburnus met its eyes, his dominant hand resting easily upon the shaft of his enchanted black glass glaive, ready to bring it to bear should defending himself become necessary; with his peripheral vision he watched the dragon's scythe-tail whip to and fro menacingly, though of course he felt no fear. He was Fifth Prince of the City of Shade, born and bred to be the finest and most lethal warrior ever to serve Lord Shadow, and never before had he shied away in the face of any such unspeakable danger.

Quick as a lightning strike the tail lashed forward, that razor-sharp edge twinkling darkly as it eclipsed the phosphorescence radiating from the subterranean fungi; with a grace more reminiscent of a bard Clariburnus leapt in a spiral, his momentum carrying him well over that whipping appendage to land, quite unharmed, on the other side. The dragon hissed and struck a second time, its claws rending the stone with an earsplitting shriek as it turned, but this time Clariburnus crouched and rolled beneath the offending tail with seemingly little effort. From Orukurtz's gaping maw was loosed a roar that sent a tremor rolling through the slate-gray plateau on which Clariburnus stood, its slavering teeth like shards of steel and its breath as foul as the interior of a centuries-old mausoleum, and just when the Fifth Prince was bracing for another attack the wyrm whipped its head upward and fixed its forbidding gaze upon Rapha as he descended, silent as a wraith, into their midst. For his part Clariburnus was stymied – over the reverberations of that deafening roar, how had their foe heard Rapha's approach? How could its eyes, keen as they undoubtedly were even in the near lightlessness of the great cavern, have tracked the hexblade as he plummeted through the blackness?

Orukurtz snapped its jaws, hoping to catch Rapha midair and make a quick and easy meal out of him, but the trigger phrase of a well-timed spell sent a dozen thin, brittle spears of ice pelting toward the dragon's vulnerable eyes and the tender flesh of its still-exposed throat. If any of those hideously sharp ice shards caused the mighty wyrm even a hint of discomfort it hid its pain well; the scythe-tip of the tail arced down, forcing Clariburnus and Rapha to spring apart to avoid it, and the tearing claws of the dragon's left foreleg swiped after the younger of the two princes but failed to find purchase upon his armor.

With the dragon's attentions momentarily focused elsewhere Clariburnus regained his balance and at last drew his glaive, their adversary's writhing tail his intended target; as Orukurtz pursued fleet-footed Rapha, whose second spell was already crackling upon his fingertips, Clariburnus tracked the dragon's tail with determined focus before lunging forward with his weapon held high. The glittering scales had been toughened by time and would have easily turned most weapons, but a combination of the glaive's enchantments and Clariburnus' shadow-enhanced strength of arm allowed him to pierce through the dragon's tough hide and pin the end of its tail to the rock underfoot. Orukurtz howled and thrashed but the head of the glaive was buried deep and would not give way easily; certain he had bought himself seconds only Clariburnus paused briefly to draw the sickle sheathed against the small of his back before leaping nimbly onto the dragon's now-stationary tail and sprinting up its spine. To the wyrm's credit Clariburnus only managed to reach its haunches before its long, slender neck was whipping around, and suddenly the Fifth Prince's field of vision was filled with gnashing teeth the length of his forearm.

Rapha took the opportunity to leap within range of Orukurtz's forelegs, darting between its furiously stamping feet to reach the point where diamond-hard scales gave way to the much softer flesh of the dragon's underbelly; out flashed his black glass katana, its cruel edge easily slashing a three-foot-long gash that gushed blood upon the slate gray stone. One of the dragon's forelegs swiped at him in retaliation and Rapha skipped backwards to avoid it, but he skidded on the blood-slicked ground and landed hard on his back with a sharp exhalation of breath that left him momentarily dazed. Sensing weakness Orukurtz stomped down, immobilizing Rapha with its immense weight and pinning him helplessly between unyielding stone and rending black claws.

Clariburnus had almost reached the wyrm's shoulder blades by then and reversed his grip on the sickle he bore, preparing to sink its curved edge into the thinner, less-armored scales spread out along the dragon's neck –

Quick as a striking snake the dragon's head whipped around, its piercing gemstone eyes burning a hole straight through to the very center of Clariburnus' being, and as he gazed into those endless depths he watched in fascination as his surroundings simply dissolved around him.

Certain this was some trick of the dragon's gaze – there was simply no denying the ancient power he had felt emanating from Orukurtz's mesmerizing eyes – Clariburnus straightened immediately and surveyed his new environment, little of it though there was to see. He found himself in an endless expanse of black, though this was far different than a moonless night's darkness or the deceptive shadows from which their kind drew strength; it was something like an artist's canvas soaked in black paint, for Clariburnus felt certain that no matter how much light he shone in this foul place it was somehow incapable of being made brighter. There was movement in the blackness, the occasional hint that he was not as alone in that place as he assumed, formless adversaries whose indistinct forms were only visible by virtue of their inability to remain still; the Fifth Prince let his eyes continually roam the void for fear that one of those shifts would accost him if he lacked vigilance, and then the first peeled itself away from the very fabric of that dimensionless space and drifted toward him soundlessly.

Clariburnus' sickle found neither flesh nor sinew when it darted out in his defense, though the aim of his strike had been true; rather the shift split in half where his weapon slashed through its vapor-body and simply ceased to be. Though the stroke was fast and efficient another of those sinister creatures materialized in its place the moment its fellow disintegrated; Clariburnus destroyed that one just as effortlessly, dissatisfied by the lack of resistance his blade met when he cut it down but confident that he could fend them off tirelessly for quite some time if need be. He couldn't begin to guess what manner of beasts they were – even the denizens of the Plane of Shadow were in most ways tangible, and bled black fluid or shadow particles when they were wounded – but the way that these creatures simply _vanished_ when struck suggested that they had never really been there at all.

The idea that his enemies were a cruel figment of his imagination all but evaporated from his mind the first time he inadvertently came into contact with one of them. The creature's shapeless appendage drifted through his right side just below the ribcage, try as he might to avoid it, and the resulting sensation was heavily debilitating; its stroke bypassed both armor and flesh and chilled him to the bone, leaving him shaking and fatigued as though he had been plunged into the iciest water imaginable. Short of breath and sluggish of arm Clariburnus dispatched his offender with less finesse than before, suddenly dismayed by the overwhelming numbers that he faced and fully conscious of the fact that the more hits he suffered the more his movement would be hindered, and the more his movement was hindered the less likely he was to survive this encounter.

The drifting vapor-figures of the shifts undulated in his direction, soundless yet sinister in their every movement, and gritting his teeth Clariburnus tightened his grip upon his weapon with grim determination.

Rapha's brothers had teased him in the early days following his transformation into a shade some six centuries previous, for outwardly he had showed no signs of possessing a shadow-enhanced ability of any real worth. It had taken months of grueling aptitude tests before Lamorak had at last been able to determine what advantage Rapha had borne with him into his new life, and even then the snide remarks had increased tenfold when the Determinist Prime had put a name to his so-called _talent_.

"It seems your mind and your body have developed an exceptional aptitude for categorizing both internal and external stimuli and reacting with highly increased efficiency," Rapha had been told, and he'd had little difficulty seeing through his brother's thin veneer of seriousness and identifying the underlying amusement beneath. _Multitasking_, Lamorak had laughingly named it. "That will come in handy for entertaining several whores at once in your pleasure palace."

His brothers jokingly called it multitasking. His father referred to it as stubbornness. Rapha preferred to think of it as tenacity.

Orukurtz bore down upon him, its teeth glinting ominously as it considered the prone prince that lay trapped beneath its wicked black claws. For his part Rapha struggled most convincingly and even managed to look appropriately frightened – he thought it would be best if he did, considering that from his enemy's vantage point a quick kill was swiftly approaching. With the sweep of the wyvern's foreleg Rapha had allowed his katana to fall from his hand and land quite out of reach, and when he had been pinned one of the dragon's claws had even managed to pierce his flexible breastplate, though it hardly bothered him. Pain was a trifle that perhaps the other Princes of Shade had experienced, but while Rapha was "multitasking" he was actually compartmentalizing the pain he felt to be considered more closely later – for now he simply hadn't the time. Were he prepared to be perfectly honest with his adversary he may have felt inclined to point out that he had allowed himself to be forced into such a compromising position, had allowed the dragon to dash his weapon from his hand, had allowed Orukurtz to reduce him to this state of perceived helplessness.

Actually these things were all a ruse, for he supposed that while the wyrm basked in its presumed victory it had forgotten about the spell crackling upon Rapha's fingertips. Maybe it assumed that in all the confusion Rapha had lost the concentration necessary to keep his spell active. Tenacity, as always, proved itself invaluable in the end.

The dragon had no hope of avoiding the spell Rapha cast, for at such close range all the Tenth Prince had to do was wriggle his hand around until it was resting palm-up and then release the energy into the tender flesh between Orukurtz's talons. The moment the spell was released Orukurtz recoiled with a roar and withdrew, inadvertently allowing Rapha to clamber to his feet and reassess the situation. Clariburnus was nowhere to be seen, though Rapha hadn't the faintest idea where his older brother might have got to; knowing the Fifth Prince's penchant for altercations of any kind Rapha surmised that he had most likely been physically removed from the battle, though Rapha didn't fear for him. Shades were damned difficult to kill, the Princes of the Empire of Shadow most of all, and he was certain that whatever ailed Clariburnus wouldn't keep him off the field of battle for long. Orukurtz was bearing down on him now with gnashing fangs but he was favoring the foreleg Rapha had inflicted his spell upon; even from this angle it was clear that the burst of acid had eaten its way to the bone, hindering the dragon's mobility somewhat. In its thrashing his adversary had managed to tear its tail free, though it was writhing far less than before and droplets of blood trailed after Orukurtz as it advanced – Clariburnus' prized glaive, Rapha noted, was resting at the opposite end of the outcropping, appearing to dance in the meager glow from the phosphorescent fungi.

By the time Orukurtz had managed to shuffle forward two paces, Rapha had already planned out the first five moves of the most ideal scenario and allowed himself enough leeway to utilize two more if circumstances demanded a change in tactics.

Simultaneously the Tenth Prince shifted into the Shadow Realm and summoned the beginnings of yet another devastating evocation spell to his fingertips; the gauntlet he wore upon his left hand was a gift from the High Prince, one that assisted him in channeling his latent spellcasting ability to produce more powerful, longer-lived results. In the blink of an eye he was back on the Material Plane and tucking into a roll to avoid the lashing of the dragon's tail, avoiding it by several inches but forced to come up into a crouch and dive immediately in order to keep clear of one of the stamping rear legs. His intended target was his brother's glaive – surely his adversary had assumed he would favor his own weapon, and seek it out instead? – but somehow Orukurtz had anticipated his next move and planned accordingly. Rapha came up beneath the thickest part of the dragon's tail, much too close to fear the lashing of the scythe-like tip, and sprinted out the other side with his eyes upon his katana now, because if that was what the dragon wanted who was he to refuse? Using the momentum he had built up mid-sprint Rapha launched himself to the left and slid along the stone on his knees, further aided by the blood still staining the ground, just in time to avoid the first use of Orukurtz's breath; a hideous gout of black sludge, viscous as oil and reeking of death, splattered the ground to his right and seared a smoldering line in the rock underfoot, and Rapha made a mental note to avoid it at all costs as he got his feet back under him and took off at a run with his eyes on his blade –

He sensed more than saw the moment when Orukurtz's snapping maw lashed out to tear him to pieces and condescended to enact his first contingency plan, turning at the waist and launching a bolt of searing fire over his shoulder; those teeth were barely a yard from closing around him and the wyrm couldn't hope to avoid it, unceremoniously swallowing a gout of flame and lurching back as it spluttered and flailed in agony. The resultant blast took Rapha from his feet and he twisted as he sailed backward, landing heavily on his back and careening toward the ledge at too great a speed to halt himself, and in the instant before he toppled headlong into the abyss he seized the hilt of his katana in his dominant hand and dragged it along with him.

Rapha was just thinking what a bother it would be to initiate his second contingency when Orukurtz plunged after him, looking a great deal more intimidating with smoke curling from its nostrils and those amethyst eyes gleaming out from within an ash-smudged face, and with the hint of a smirk Rapha prepared to meet his enemy mid free-fall.

Only those with exceptionally keen senses could successfully phase between dimensions while moving, and even fewer could do it while plummeting through the Underdark with an elder dragon bearing down on them; Rapha scarcely concerned himself with minor details such as probability and odds, though, for he was far too busy calculating the rate at which he was falling and the distance between himself and his adversary and how near he was to a rift between the Material Plane and the Shadow Realm. With Orukurtz pumping its crystalline wings furiously and its maw opening as it prepared to loose another burst of its crippling necrotic breath, the Tenth Prince knew that it would be a close thing; sure enough the great dragon breathed, Rapha stretched out his free hand, and the hexblade winked out of existence even as that foul black breath burst from the dragon's smoking jaws.

Even in the Shadow Plane, Rapha was not idle; the instant his body reconstructed itself he was running, sheathing his blade as he went, the gauntlet that he wore upon his left hand smoldering as he summoned his mightiest spell yet. His eyes sought out yet another tear between dimensions with singular focus and he pumped his legs faster, knowing that his timing would need to be exact or the consequences would be dire indeed, and he passed through the rift without bothering to slow. Orukurtz was below him, its serpentine head twisting this way and that as it sought out the impertinent shadow creature who had eluded him, its wings billowing out to their fullest extent as it slowed its descent into the unfathomable abyss below; Rapha turned the momentum of his sprint into a midair spin, his warrior's body curving almost elegantly and his black glass armor making not a sound of protest as he moved, and even as the dragon's amethyst eyes glared upward at him the Tenth Prince thrust his left hand out before him and loosed a bolt of molten flame that struck the dragon squarely in the chest.

Only the blast-back effect of the spell could have saved him from a sure fall to his death, though of course Rapha had planned as much; the bolt's recoil sent him flying upward, and sending his body into a graceful back flip the hexblade's feet came to rest precisely on the edge of the precipice from which he had flung himself just minutes before. There issued a roar of intermingling rage and agony from the pit that reverberated off the unseen walls of the cavern, and when the resultant echoes at last faded from Rapha's keen ears all was silent and eerie as before.

Rapha retreated to where his brother's intricately-carved glaive lay, the hand that did not bear his ensorcelled gauntlet tracing the puncture in his breastplate as he investigated the extent of the damage; the viscous substance that coated his fingers when they were withdrawn was surely his own shadowblood, and as Rapha bent to take up the abandoned glaive he allowed the pain of his injury to flood his senses in small, manageable doses as he considered how best to proceed. He had assumed that when the dragon was struck down Clariburnus would reappear, but as the moments ticked by and the only sound continued to be that of the increasingly agitating _drip-drip_ of condensation upon stone he was forced to consider the possibility that some ill fate had befallen his brother that the dragon's passing would not restore. What manner of beast had he felled, with the power to spirit away a man as powerful as the Fifth Prince of Shade with but a glance?

The pulsing discomfort of his injury had seized his senses in full now and Rapha's breath came in increasingly labored gasps; it was apparent that he reach the surface in his weakened state and seek the aid of one of the arcanists that journeyed with the Army of Shade. The mystery of Clariburnus' whereabouts would simply have to keep until then.

Some ulterior sense that Rapha possessed alerted him that something was very, very wrong then, and whirling he brought his brother's glaive to bear; the weapon was dashed from his hands by a swipe of serrated black claws and he was taken unceremoniously from his feet by a snapping scythe-like tail, and such was the force behind the second blow that Rapha scarcely felt the impact when his limp body struck the ground.

Cold the likes of which he had never felt seized Clariburnus in icy, merciless clutches and he nearly swooned – indeed, only his intense warrior's focus and unparalleled discipline kept him upright and alert, the sickle that served as his only defense against the seemingly endless hordes of wisps held defiantly in front of him despite his swiftly-waning strength. Sheer numbers would be his undoing unless he found some way to escape the nightmare prison the dragon had conjured for him – there was a solution, he knew, some way to spring himself from this illusion, but his rapidly-multiplying enemies occupied him with such insistence that he hadn't the time to investigate further. Was there an end to their numbers, and he needed only to weather the storm until they expired? Or was there a way to escape that he simply hadn't identified while he'd been wasting his time fighting off these shapeless distractions?

One of the shifts lurched out of their gliding formation, its wraithlike hands groping for him, and Clariburnus' stroke would have taken its hand off at the wrist were its form corporeal; as it was the wisp dissolved when attacked just as its predecessors had done, leaving Clariburnus unmolested but fatigued and gasping all the same. Another reached for him and he twisted away, every movement sloppier than the last, the unnatural chill settling upon his body lessening his razor-sharp reflexes and leaving him hopelessly vulnerable –

A hand grasped him at the elbow, icy fingers leeching what little remained of his strength, and with a last growl of defiance the Fifth Prince pivoted on his trailing foot and spun, letting his sickle lead, keeping all other extremities tucked in close, feeling not a bit of resistance as the weapon tore through the encroaching wisps but satisfied when they vanished just the same. Physically taxed beyond his limits Clariburnus rocked backward, fully expecting to land unceremoniously on his rump before he was set upon by countless shifts and stymied when he stumbled backward into a wall of masterfully-hewn rock. The unpleasant odor of spoiled mushrooms and ancient earth lingered in his nostrils; his knees trembled with the effort of keeping himself upright. Somehow, he had made it back.

Moving slowly as to accommodate the shuddering that continued to wrack his chilled and fatigued body Clariburnus reached the narrow tunnel exit, recognizing it almost immediately as the one he and Rapha had initially traversed upon entering the Heart of Darkness. Here he slumped against the wall yet again, breathing labored but quiet, and peered cautiously below – in time to witness the stroke of the dragon's tail that sent Rapha reeling incoherently to collapse to the ground. It was clear at a glance that their adversary was much worse for wear: it dragged one foreleg and refused to put weight on it for long, its gaping maw revealed several cracked and broken fangs, and one of its wings was crippled and scorched. Clariburnus couldn't help the begrudging pride that swelled in his chest – his brother had clearly not been idle in his unexpected absence.

"What will you do now, little prince?" rumbled Orukurtz, its voice a condescending drawl as it shambled nearer to the place where Rapha lay, eyes still slightly out of focus from the force of the blow. "Will you continue to fight, knowing that your chances of success are nonexistent? Or would you prefer that I put you down now? It seems needlessly cruel of me to humiliate you further, but if you refuse to concede I will not hesitate to cause you further pain before I kill you. Make no mistake, your death is assured – I would never spare one so insolent as to invade my lair and attack unprovoked."

Rapha cocked his head to one side and spat a glob of shadowblood upon the rough gray stone – was it Clariburnus' imagination, or did his brother's eyes flit briefly upward in his direction before darting discreetly away? "You will forgive my insolence, I hope," Rapha fired back, "when I point out that you have surely suffered greater humiliation at my hands than I at yours. I would caution you not to consider the battle won, wyrm, though it will hardly change the outcome."

"Arrogant even until the end," observed the dragon as though profoundly disappointed, and snapping its jaws it loosed a gout of necrotic breath in the prone prince's direction.

Only Rapha's unparalleled focus kept him from meeting an untimely end; despite the continued bleariness of his vision he still lurched forward and managed to scramble just out of range of the searing black mist that emanated from the dragon's maw. Orukurtz slithered after him persistently, inhaling ominously through its nostrils as it prepared yet another expulsion of breath, but turning back Rapha met the attack with a cone of blistering flame that erupted from his enchanted gauntlet. The energies collided between them, an unnatural cacophony of spitting decay and writhing flame, and though Orukurtz snarled and bore down on him Rapha's spell was not extinguished as he began steadily backing –

Clariburnus identified his brother's target in the instant before Rapha reached it, and flexing the last of the fatigue out of his muscles the Fifth Prince shoved away from the wall and leapt.

Arm trembling with the effort of maintaining the searing gout of magical fire, sweat streaking his face from continued close proximity to the overbearing heat, Rapha managed to hook the toe of one boot beneath the handle of Clariburnus' glaive and flick it expertly into his free hand; from there he launched the weapon upward, watching with a kind of grim satisfaction as Orukurtz tracked the weapon's trajectory with its gemstone eyes and realized the enormity of its error.

Clariburnus pierced through the gloom like an arrow, catching the soaring weapon with one hand and easily turning it over with its darkly glimmering edge pointing down; the dragon's head rose to meet him as its neck stretched sinuously, but it was much too late. The Fifth Prince landed almost gracefully upon the upper portion of Orukurtz's neck and used his momentum to drive the head of his glaive down into the sensitive scales of its cranial ridge. The dragon's death throes might have dislodged Clariburnus from his perch but Rapha was there, and having swiftly retrieved his katana he thrust its keen point through the roof of the wyrm's gaping maw and pierced its brain.

The silence reverberated in Rapha's ears as he tried once, then twice, to tug his weapon free; when at last he had done so Clariburnus had managed to push himself into a sitting position and watched his youngest brother stalk a few paces nearer before depositing himself unceremoniously on the stone a few feet away.

"A pretty entrance," Rapha sneered, studying the dragon's blood staining his blade with morbid fascination, "if a bit belated."

"I do enjoy a bit of pomp and circumstance at times," jested Clariburnus tiredly – his fingertips still felt numb with cold but he was thinking clearly now, and the chills no longer plagued his body. "I assumed you had the situation well in hand, and that I would only be in the way, so I excused myself."

Rapha dabbed experimentally at the jagged tear in his breastplate, which was still seeping black shadowblood. Despite his injury he shrugged and said, "Well enough in hand, I suppose."

There was movement in the tunnel above and both princes glanced up in time to observe the descent of their eldest brother into their midst; touching down Escanor set his hands upon his hips authoritatively and took in the mutilated dragon's corpse nearby and the disheveled state of his brothers before breaking into a grin. "What has been the delay, then?"

Rapha and Clariburnus exchanged a disgruntled glance, and in the end wordlessly agreed to say nothing.


	7. Chapter Seven - Rogue

Though he had never been one for procrastination, Dethud allowed several days to pass before he begrudgingly revisited all that Illyria had told him. Later he would insist that he had been kept far too busy to allow for any contemplation on the subject but privately he acknowledged that he simply hadn't a clue how to deal with the information that had been thrust upon him. He might even have been content to put the matter off for a few days more – what could it hurt? – but there remained the lingering fear that he would be found out if he did not return to his regular duties soon; he had confined himself to his necromancy study for three days while he sorted through Illyria's testimony and had no doubts that sooner or later his more inquisitive siblings would come calling and question his uncharacteristic seclusion. This was something he needed to be certain and avoid at all costs.

Withholding all that he knew was not an option, but who to tell? A matter this urgent should have been presented to the Most High at once, but Dethud would then have to explain how he had come by his information and the resulting confession would place his reputation at stake. While he knew Illyria's "fate-touched" stories to be more than simple-minded nonsense, he also knew that he couldn't expect anyone else to take her words as fact without significant proof – Dethud, of course, had witnessed firsthand what the conniving little fatespinner was capable of, but few others had. Not only would the High Prince sooner kill Illyria for spouting her childish, ungrounded theories Dethud would likely find himself facing some severe punishment for his involvement with her; non-residents of the enclave were only permitted entrance to Thultanthar at the High Prince's own invitation, a rule that Dethud had been breaking for the better part of a decade where Illyria was concerned.

Still, the more time that elapsed the less inclined the Seventh Prince was to present his predicament to his patron, which meant he would likely have to approach one of his brothers with the matter. This was hardly a comforting prospect – the Princes of Shade were loyal to a fault when the security of their homeland was at stake but in all other scenarios their standing with the High Prince was their first priority, and Dethud had no doubts that any of his siblings would tarnish his reputation if it meant gaining even a fraction more favor from their sovereign. He might have risked speaking with Brennus on the matter under kinder circumstances, for the youngest prince had always been known to be more sympathetic than the others, but now Dethud supposed he would not have another opportunity to speak with Brennus in this lifetime. Escanor and Clariburnus, stricter in ethics but still possessed of their youngest brother's penchant for empathy, might have been inclined to lend a hand were they still dwelling in the enclave, but of course they were busy taking the High Prince's retribution to the unsuspecting drow in Menzoberranzan. He even considered preying on Soleil for help, given that the princess was clearly not in her right mind with her new husband away and the death of Hadrhune still weighing heavily upon her fragile conscience, but by all accounts she was now rarely seen outside the company of Sceptrana Arthien and Dethud didn't much care for his chances meddling with that one. The time she had spent enjoying Aglarel's trust had likely hardened her against any such trickery, and her alliance to the High Prince was still new enough that he couldn't imagine she would risk that to assist anyone with a personal matter.

Who then? Could he truly trust anyone with so sensitive an issue?

One thing was for certain, Dethud mused as he tried and failed yet again to scry the city of Deep Imaskar from within his private necromancy chamber – every interaction with Illyria from this point forward needed to be mediated with exaggerated care if he hoped to maintain the upper hand. His eccentric gloaming liaison had given almost nothing away regarding her unlikely ally, the new Lord Artificer she had identified only as Volt, but his own silent observations were astute enough to piece together a few important details that didn't sit particularly well with him. After only limited exposure to one of the volumes of the _Imaskarcana_ he had been versed enough in its ancient arcane lore to stage a one-man overthrow of one of the most powerful cabals of archwizards in Faerun – not only that, but his authority had been universally accepted shortly thereafter, and if Illyria was to be believed the citizens of Deep Imaskar were actually quite pleased with the exchange of power. This could mean only one of two things – either the power structure amongst the wizard-kings of Deep Imaskar had been so weak before that any usurper to the throne would have been considered a welcome change, or worse still Volt was so strong that none now dwelled in their underground city with the might to oppose him.

It brought to mind a troubling notion – if the new Lord Artificer really had set his sights on reclaiming the _Imaskarcana_ that Mourntrin Auvryndar had smuggled into Thultanthar and thus far he had crushed all who dared oppose him, was there anyone within the City of Shade who had any hope of defying him?

When a day's worth of council sessions had come and gone without a single appearance from Third Prince Lamorak, Phendrana couldn't help fearing the worst.

_Where is he?_ the doppelganger demanded, wringing his hands as he made his way distractedly down the steps of the Palace Most High and toward the Circle. _There has been no mention of the book, or what the High Prince intends to do with it. Lim Tal'eyve is still in captivity, but there has been no speculation even amongst the council as to what will be done with him. Are these not causes for concern?_

_If the Most High chooses not to share the finer points with us, that is not something we can rightfully argue, _Hadrhune lectured nastily, but there was an undercurrent of worry beneath the seneschal's words that ever-perceptive Phendrana did not miss; the doppelganger waited, attentive and considerate to the point of annoyance, until Hadrhune was compelled to elaborate. _Given the less than favorable circumstances surrounding the book and its arrival into our midst, it may behoove us to ascertain its location if only to ensure it does not fall into the wrong hands. I must confess, Prince Lamorak's absence concerns me also. I feel there can only be one logical explanation – the Imaskarcana has fallen to him for further study._

Phendrana started; it was clear by the alarm that permeated his subconscious mind that he had hardly considered the possibility. _Why would the High Prince not keep it? Investigate its contents with his own eyes?_

The shadow sorcerer shrugged negligently as if he hardly cared, but his thoughts were Phendrana's to read at will so he shared them anyway. _The High Prince has many cares at the moment, and I daresay that the war with Menzoberranzan is foremost among them. Were I him, I would task someone both knowledgeable and trustworthy with deciphering it – and with Prince Brennus now indisposed, Prince Lamorak seems the clear choice. _Phendrana inwardly winced at the mention of the loremaster's name but Hadrhune steadfastly ignored this, finishing, _If you insist on meddling in affairs so obviously above your station, I would suggest seeking an audience with him. Doubtless he still nurses a soft spot for you, despite your insubordination._

Needless to say Phendrana was in quite a foul temper when he arrived at Villa Illumen, the private residence of Third Prince Lamorak, shortly thereafter; his mood darkened considerably more when the house servants ushered him inside and granted him a private audience despite the fact that his presence was not expected. He suffered Hadrhune's quiet smugness while he alighted the staircase to Lamorak's living quarters, and rapped rather more forcefully at the door than was necessary.

"Not now, if you please," wafted the Third Prince's voice from within – he sounded harried and distracted, and for a moment Phendrana felt intensely guilty for disturbing him unannounced.

"Forgive my intrusion," Phendrana replied timidly, already turning away from the door. "I will not distract you from your business."

"Phendrana?" Warmth and familiarity returned to Lamorak's tone; Hadrhune chuckled with dark superiority, and the doppelganger's shame increased tenfold. "Please show yourself in, my friend. You are most welcome."

It was impossible not to be taken aback by the state of the Third Prince's bedchamber, for Lamorak preferred his surroundings to be quite tidy and the current state of the room was anything but. There were weathered scrolls in unfamiliar tongues spread out over every inch of the study desk, some so rolled that their corners were being held flat by random books taken from the overstuffed bookshelf in the corner. There was a stack of ancient journals with blank spines stacked precariously upon the high-backed desk chair, and still more seemingly identical to these lay open to particular entries scattered along Lamorak's meticulously-made bed. No candles were lit but the heavy curtains leading out to the balcony had been drawn back; as it was not yet sunset enough daylight filtered through the clouds of shadow enshrouding the enclave to read comfortably by. Phendrana supposed that Lamorak had not attended the Determinist's Guild all day, for he was rarely seen out of his robes but he had not donned them now – instead he wore plain breeks and a matching vest of a deep plum, garb that accentuated slender legs and a pronounced, gracefully-curved collarbone that spoke of his more cerebral role in their society. He paced the length of the room from curtain to doorway with bare feet and a tome in the crook of his elbow whose spine he supported in the palm of one hand, and with an unpleasant jolt Phendrana recognized the _Imaskarcana_.

"Forgive me," Phendrana said again, but Lamorak was waving the apology away before it had even been spoken.

"I am glad for the distraction, truly," the Third Prince assured him, closing the _Imaskarcana_ with a smart snap of finality, and laying the text aside he fixed Phendrana with an easy smile. "I find it easy to become too enamored of the book when I spend long periods of time studying it, and only seem to return to myself when I have spent a little time away."

_Ask him about Lim,_ Hadrhune bade him, his tone leaving little room for debate, but with his eyes still fixed unblinkingly upon the _Imaskarcana_ the doppelganger had little trouble dismissing the request.

"Then this is the reason for your absence," Phendrana observed carefully, overcome with curiosity but hesitant all the same. Was Lamorak permitted to speak of his study of the book? Even if he was, would he share his findings with Phendrana? The thought of being invited further into the prince's confidence was a troubling prospect, if only because recent events had left Phendrana cautious of relying too heavily on him – Lamorak had alluded to machinations that were in direct conflict with Phendrana's, particularly those where Brennus was concerned. With a painful pang of abrupt remembrance, Phendrana reminded himself yet again that he needn't be much too mindful of his former lover's wishes at the present.

"Yes and no," Lamorak responded vaguely, gesturing haphazardly at the untouched decanter of Thultanthar's famed Netherese heartwine in a kind of wordless offer that Phendrana politely declined with a single shake of his head; Lamorak crossed to the bed and retrieved one of the journals that lay open, passing it to the doppelganger with such obvious reverence that Phendrana knew immediately he was holding something precious. "In truth I have perused the book little, for many reasons – primarily because it is mentally taxing for one who is not accustomed to such ancient and powerful magic, but also because I have only the most fundamental understanding of the language and I am learning it as I go. The written word can be as potentially deadly as the sharpest blade – that this book exists at all is proof enough of that."

Phendrana blinked down at the journal he had been given, mystified, as Hadrhune mechanically began to translate the words on the page; the text was in the Netherese language, something the seneschal had long been fluent in but the doppelganger had yet to learn. When he reached the top of the next page, however, Hadrhune's voice faltered – familiar text gave way to entirely unrecognizable symbols that neither of them had ever laid eyes on, though the handwriting was identical to that which had penned the Netherese text.

"What is this?" Phendrana asked, doing his best to look appropriately perplexed – none yet knew that Hadrhune dwelled within his mind, and to let on that he understood the Netherese language when Lamorak was well aware he had no prior instruction would be to invite unwanted inquiries.

Lamorak's eyes were roving the journals' contents with a warmth that Phendrana had never witnessed, and his answer was altogether unexpected. "It belonged to my mother. The musings inscribed therein are her own."

Phendrana felt his eyes grow impossibly wide at the prince's declaration; he had lived amongst the Princes of Shade for nigh on three years, and of the late Queens of Thultanthar he knew virtually nothing. Even the High Prince, who had always been cordial and accommodating to Phendrana, had never mentioned them in his presence. His timidity to broach the subject must have been plain upon his face, for with one glance Lamorak was laughing and ushering Phendrana into a seat at the elegant tea table just inside the balcony.

"Brie," said the Third Prince ponderously, "please bring fruit, and cheese, and perhaps bread with some of the apricot jam. I have recovered my appetite, and the Mind of the Most High is here." Then he perched himself upon the only other chair at the tea table, crossing one leg over the other and sitting perhaps a little nearer to Phendrana than two casual acquaintances might sit; despite himself, for a moment the doppelganger couldn't help being struck by the Third Prince's air of distinct regality. "There is much I would share with you, though I do request that you keep these matters between us. The High Prince has not forbidden me outright to speak of it, but all the same…"

_We do not have time for this,_ cut in Hadrhune with a long-suffering sigh that made Phendrana grind his teeth in frustration.

_We will make time,_ Phendrana insisted, his tone bordering on rude.

If the Most High learns of this –

_Shut up,_ the doppelganger overrode him, and realizing that Lamorak was gazing at him expectantly Phendrana hastened to formulate a verbal reply. "I am the very soul of discretion."

"I knew I could count on your modesty." The door opened and Brie, the head housekeeper of Villa Illumen, admitted herself bearing a silver tray laden with various fruits and cheeses imported from the World Below. Like Lux, Brie was also a young Shadovar – no older than fourteen with pale, almost silvery skin, eyes blue as a cloudless summer sky and a long shock of dark auburn hair that draped over one shoulder in a simple braid. She deftly laid out the spread with a polite curtsy for her master and a shy smile for Phendrana, who unlike most other members of the esteemed Shadow Court preferred to treat the common people as friends rather than slaves; though a man of relatively high standing now Phendrana had come from humble beginnings, and he preferred not to forget as much. She set a teapot in front of him, as well as a delicate porcelain cup and saucer, smiling demurely.

"I've brought the star anise tea that you are so fond of, Lord Phendrana," Brie announced, seeming quite proud that she had remembered such an obscure detail, and she filled his cup with one hand while simultaneously pouring a goblet of cool water for Lamorak. "Sugar?"

"You are a gem as always, young lady," Phendrana complimented freely, and after dropping a sugar cube into the doppelganger's faintly-steaming cup Brie bowed herself out of the room, blushing radiantly. Glancing up Phendrana locked eyes with Lamorak, who was surveying him knowingly over the rim of his goblet. "Have I said something?"

Lamorak replaced his goblet and filled his plate, a golden pear and a succulent-looking peach and a few cubes of aged cheddar, smiling indulgently as he said, "No, you simply have so many redeeming qualities that oftentimes I find myself in awe of you."

Phendrana's hand froze as he was reaching for a gorgonzola wedge; in his mind, Hadrhune was so stunned that for a moment he forgot to be cynical. Sincerity was apparent in the prince's expression, but the compliment was so generous that it was some time before Phendrana was able to construct a proper reply. "You flatter me, Prince – indeed I think you shower me with undeserved praise."

"I never offer praise that has not been earned," Lamorak assured him solemnly, and Phendrana scrambled to assemble a slice of crisped bread with jam with his head down in an effort to hide the color rising swiftly in his cheeks. "But enough of that for now – there is much for me to tell you, so you will excuse me if I choose to bandy pleasantries with you another time.

"My mother, Queen Maedra, was the third of the High Prince's wives, and largely considered most beloved of them. Though my sovereign doted on her and bestowed upon her every comfort and kindness that he could provide, she bore only two sons – it was difficult for her to conceive, you see, and she eventually passed due to childbirth complications that resulted of her delivery of Brennus." Phendrana blinked owlishly, taken aback by this revelation, but his host chose not to linger on the subject. "In life she was a great beauty, a benevolent ruler, and a celebrated historian. She had a great love for other races and cultures, and thirsted for knowledge that was particularly hard to come by." Lamorak bit into his pear almost daintily; the fruit's juices made his lips gleam. "Are you at all familiar with the Empire of Imaskar, Phendrana?"

"Only just," the mindmaster admitted.

"Were you aware, then, that theirs is a civilization that predates even the Netherese Imperium?"

"I'm sorry, no." Phendrana's voice was thick with unabashed wonder.

"Then I will save a lengthier overview of its history for another time," said Lamorak with a chuckle, "and tell you only that which is vital to our story. Queen Maedra was utterly fascinated with the Imaskari – primarily their mastery of the arcane, which for that time period was highly advanced, especially in the eyes of our fledgling society. Knowing the High Prince's penchant for all things magic she endeavored to gain a higher understanding of the Imaskari language, Roushoum – difficult enough in itself, as it is a tongue used exclusively in their domain, and like most spellcasters they were reclusive in their dealings and quite protective of their mastery of the arcane." He smiled softly then, the fondness returning to his eyes, and Phendrana found himself somewhat beguiled by the expression. "She succeeded well enough – she was exceedingly clever – and in her journals she penned her tireless translation of Roushoum into Netherese. The Most High has kept them remarkably well preserved these many centuries, and has graciously loaned them to me to assist in my studies."

The blankness in Phendrana's mind was indicative of Hadrhune's speechlessness; the doppelganger hastened to structure a reply. "You… are studying the book?"

The trepidation in his voice was impossible to mistake; it brought a knowing twinkle to Lamorak's eye, but he said nothing that would implicate his companion. "I am, and at our sovereign's express wish. It is now his single greatest desire to know all the secrets that are buried beneath the plethora of enchantments woven into these pages – the war with Menzoberranzan notwithstanding, of course – as well as to what end Mourntrin Auvryndar intended Lim Tal'eyve to use it. Our civilization was built upon the foundation of an ancient magic, one few other cultures have learned to master over the centuries – imagine how it would further the advancement of our society if we could claim a higher understanding of Ancient Imaskari magic as well."

That was all fine and good, Phendrana supposed, but one thing yet vexed him enough to continue questioning the Third Prince while he seemed to be feeling so accommodating; Hadrhune's wordless curiosities bolstered Phendrana's resolve, and the knowledge that they were in agreement drove him to voice his concerns. "Does it not seem somewhat ill-advised to continue prodding about within the pages of the book which has already claimed one life?"

Lamorak's expression became momentarily frosty; for a moment it was as though Brennus' ghost lingered in the room alongside them. Phendrana wondered if he would ever comprehend why the mere mention of the youngest prince caused Lamorak to become so unapproachable, but then Hadrhune quietly accused him of being tactless and he thought he had a vague idea. To his credit, Lamorak recovered his genial nature relatively quickly as he returned to his pear. "That is the purpose of my research into the late queen's journals, at least in part," he explained. "You see, though there are a great many enchantments existing within the _Imaskarcana_, there is one seemingly innocuous one which I believe is responsible for Brennus' current state – easy enough to overlook when one considers the other more complex spells that exist here, but an exceedingly clever one that would help the Imaskari wizard-kings ensure that their arcane secrets didn't fall into another's hands. Though the pages are written in many different languages – Common, Elven, Dwarven, and Sylvan, to name a select few – the enchantment is somehow able to detect the language in which the owner reads it. If one reads in any language other than Roushoum, the enchantment transmutes the reader into the book's newest page. It pairs with another also subtle dweomer, one that compels the reader by use of a simple but potent beguiling spell to delve into the book's contents almost recklessly."

Aware that Lamorak was searching his face for any sign of distress the doppelganger vacated his seat at the tea table and retreated to where the book lay closed, tracing its cover with curious, slightly-trembling fingertips. Phendrana had no trouble reaching the inevitable conclusion - after spending days hard at work, tirelessly stripping away the protective spells keeping the book closed, Brennus would have been eager to learn all that he could. Given his voracious appetite for knowledge and his manic desperation to return to the High Prince's favor, he would have made a prime target for the more sinister, subtler magics woven into the seemingly harmless pages. Lacking a proper understanding of just what he was dealing with, Brennus would not have known how to defend himself. Likely he had fallen prey immediately, perhaps so quickly that he hadn't even realized what was happening.

Phendrana wasn't even aware that he had begun rifling through the pages until Lamorak's hand clasped him none-too-gently just above the elbow, in effect dragging his preoccupied mind back to reality.

"No, Phendrana, _don't_ – "

"I just want to see him," Phendrana heard himself gasping out desperately in a voice quite unlike his own. "I just want to see his face."

"He isn't there," Lamorak began in exasperation, but those were the only words he could stumble through before Phendrana had thrown open the last page and gazed down upon it with something like blank horror etched upon his face.

There was truth to Lamorak's words – where before the page had borne a perfect likeness of Brennus gazing placidly back at anyone who might gaze upon him now there was a simple black page that at first glance might have been paper-thin obsidian or smooth, flexible black marble; though the book was filled with hundreds of pages this particular sheaf was the only one of its kind, and Phendrana couldn't help feeling morbidly captivated by it. The only thing left to suggest that the Twelfth Prince still resided there within the strange dark parchment was the six and a half lines of script painstakingly etched in shimmering golden calligraphy upon its surface; Phendrana knew instinctively that this was Brennus' handwriting from hours of contentedly watching the loremaster translate ancient texts into Netherese or the Common tongue with his narrow, elegant penmanship. The last few letters were still gleaming with fresh ink, the mindmaster noticed with no small amount of incredulity, and before his disbelieving eyes another golden stroke materialized on the page as though it was being inscribed there by an invisible hand.

"He's trying to tell us something," Phendrana breathed in disbelief, the fingertips of his free hand stretching automatically toward the shining golden ink.

"Phendrana, _NO_!" growled Lamorak, and with a fearful strength the Determinist Prime dragged him away from the _Imaskarcana_; every time the doppelganger stretched out a hand Lamorak snatched it back until he managed to pin Phendrana's arms to his sides, and when Phendrana thrashed in his desperation to free himself Lamorak murmured a harsh apology before kicking his legs out from beneath him and hauling him backward. Dimly Phendrana realized that the voice in his head shrieking for him to submit was not a fabrication but the voice of Hadrhune, and only then did reason return enough for him to allow himself to be manhandled away from the book with numb legs and wide, unseeing eyes.

Time passed in an incomprehensible blur for a little while as grief robbed Phendrana of his senses, until all at once he came back to himself to find he had collapsed back into a chair at the tea table and was slumped over his half-eaten plate of food; he blinked blearily down at his plate, trying to focus his still-swimming vision, and came to realize that he was still encircled tightly in Lamorak's arms. His first instinct was to wriggle away, to find a way to escape the unwanted physical contact somehow, but the longer he hesitated the more he came to realize that it was only the Third Prince's unexpected empathy keeping him from breaking down. The thought of Brennus trapped within that single page, living his life through each stroke of an unseen golden quill, brought a fresh wave of stinging tears to his eyes, and perhaps Lamorak sensed the return of his despair for that was when the Third Prince's voice reached his ear.

"Now you see the cruelty, and the brilliance, of the _Imaskarcana_? Can you not imagine how I grieved the first time I sought my brother's face and found only these words, a hollow and inadequate representation of the man but all that remains of him nonetheless? I am desperate to connect with him yet so far I have somehow found the will to ignore his words, even as he endeavors to be heard – it is agony, but it is a pain that I must endure. Can you understand why, Phendrana?"

The warmth of the Determinist Prime's body was an unasked-for kindness that anchored Phendrana to reason, and it helped him reach the obvious conclusion. "Because you have yet to master Roushoum. Even if he is writing in Netherese, you cannot dare to read the words aloud. If you did, the book would imprison you also."

"So I must learn it," Lamorak murmured raggedly, "if I am to have any hope of recovering him, and for your own safety I must ask you not to interfere. Do you not understand that if I hadn't been here to stop you, you would have reached out blindly and been lost amongst these pages? There are real consequences for delving into that which we do not fully comprehend, Phendrana, and know that for my part I am doing all I can to prevent another tragedy of this nature. I cannot pretend to fathom how you must be grieving for him, but you must trust _me_ now to remedy this situation. He will not be returned today, or tomorrow, for there are ancient and terrible dweomers living in these pages and I cannot afford to take on the task of unraveling them lightly and risk coming to a similar fate, but I make you this promise – all that is within my power to do for my brother is being done, and I will not rest until I have restored him to life. I have made the High Prince this vow, and now I give it to you – little as I know it must mean to you now."

Phendrana looked inward before he replied, hoping that he might draw some inspiration from Hadrhune, but the seneschal was just as stunned and speechless as he felt himself. The prince's breath was warm at his ear and he forgot again to resist, could not help being transfixed by the sensation and the unwilling tendril of heat it sparked within the pit of his stomach. He opened his mouth hesitantly – to protest or to encourage, he had no way to be certain – but was saved the trouble of stumbling gracelessly through his tangled words when Lamorak simply drifted away from him without preamble. Phendrana watched dazedly as the Third Prince took up his seat at the tea table again with his characteristic dignity, and at first glance it seemed that Lamorak had not been at all fazed by the doppelganger's proximity; Phendrana wondered at the pang of annoyance this reaction stirred up within him, but Lamorak spoke again and derailed his train of thought.

"You are welcome to stay and finish your meal, though I expect you have rather lost your appetite in light of recent events," said the Determinist Prime sadly, gazing down at his own half-eaten pear as though it had lost all its appeal. "And you are of course welcome to visit me whenever the urge strikes you – I assure you I will be most grateful for the diversion – but be aware that I cannot tolerate further visits of this nature." Awareness returned to Phendrana at this proclamation and he glanced up in alarm, only to find Lamorak gazing back at him with uncharacteristic empathy. "You must keep away from the book for your own safety, and I am not willing to use force against you – it grieves me to treat you so. If I am to succeed in this endeavor I must devote myself to it fully… That being said, I cannot afford to be distracted by the thought of you endangering yourself. Can you promise me, therefore, that when you are in this room you will be able to master your emotions? If not I am afraid this will have to be our last meeting for quite some time."

These words incited within Phendrana the most curious and unexplainable feeling of melancholy, so instinctive and strong that he was momentarily taken aback by it. At first he couldn't fathom just what was so repulsive about the idea of not having further contact with Lamorak, but after a moment's introspection he thought he understood – once, before Brennus' tragic fall from their sovereign's favor, the Twelfth Prince had been his closest companion, and they had spent as much of their time together as circumstances would allow. When Phendrana and Brennus had been forcibly separated by the High Prince's command and Lamorak had been assigned to monitor the doppelganger's mental facilities Phendrana had welcomed his company wholeheartedly, knowing that the alternative was surely to succumb to his misery. Perhaps Lamorak hadn't meant for them to become closer than casual acquaintances, but whether by his design or not there was no denying that the Determinist Prime was now nearer to Phendrana's heart than anyone. The ominous words that the Third Prince had spoken, his less-than-honorable intentions to supplant Brennus, were never far from Phendrana's mind, but the thought of losing yet another close confidante to unfavorable circumstances was simply more than he could bear.

Well, he supposed he had Hadrhune now, but Phendrana couldn't honestly say that he had thus far enjoyed the seneschal's company. This thought incited a mutinous grumble from one of the deepest recesses of the doppelganger's subconscious that he steadfastly ignored as he turned his gaze resolutely upon Lamorak, who of course was patiently awaiting an answer with a courteous and polite expression upon his face. "I promise," he swore solemnly, and as if to display the utmost sincerity of this vow he steadfastly retrieved his half-eaten gorgonzola wedge and took a deliberate bite.

They finished the meal together and spoke of familiar things, though Phendrana's moment of weakness was not one of them; the _Imaskarcana_ remained closed on the Third Prince's bed and did not serve as a focal point of the conversations that followed, and though Phendrana did not cast so much as a glance in its direction the image of shining golden calligraphy upon an onyx page never ceased to occupy his thoughts.

Soleil had long preferred to hold fencing practice outdoors rather than in the stuffy classrooms at the Hall of the Arts Martial – Aveil supposed this had quite a lot to do with the fact that the princess so rarely saw the sun, and as a denizen of the World Below she had never grown completely accustomed to life in the shadow-swathed city of Thultanthar. Prior to the departure of the Army of Shade her sparring partner of choice had been either her esteemed husband or Clariburnus, at least when his duties as Supreme Commander allowed for such recreation; these days she had very few prospects with which to continue honing her skills as the barracks had completely emptied for the siege on Menzoberranzan so she had taken to battling some of the nobles of the Upper Court, distant relations to the High Prince or one of his sons whose claim to the throne was acknowledged in polite company but mattered not at all to the Tanthul family. These mean creatures, Aveil had noticed early on, were nothing like the Princes of Shade: they lived only for pleasure and on the whole seemed to be vain and foppish nobles with little interest in anything beyond their rather meaningless and frivolous pursuits. As much as she despised these pompous lords she couldn't pretend that she didn't find any amusement from these meetings – the dukes and viscounts who agreed to cross blades with the Princess of Thultanthar were rather of the opinion that she would be better served sipping wine and prancing around in lovely gowns at soirees in the Upper Court, and Aveil derived a great deal of satisfaction from watching Soleil humiliate them when they took up arms against her.

On this particular day it was Viscount Virion, an illegitimate great-grandson of Eleventh Prince Melegaunt's, who served as Soleil's opponent of choice; though he was considered young yet by Shadovar standards he had dabbled in the ways of both tome and sword, and for a little while had learned the ways of bowmanship from one Clariburnus' senior commanders at the Hall of the Arts Martial. While there was no denying that the mountebank could benefit greatly from crossing blades with someone who employed such a unique combat style it was clear by the princess' disdainful expression that she could hardly abide Virion's presence for an extended period of time, and for good reason – with the self-assurance of youth and the assumed superiority of his semi-noble station, Virion made for an egocentric sparring partner.

"Milady," Virion was saying when Aveil at last managed to rouse herself from her reverie, "might I say that your swordplay is simply divine! You are a paragon of grace and poise – surely your enemies will tremble in terror at the sight of you upon the field of battle."

"Sir," growled Soleil in exasperation, straightening from her defensive crouch with a pained expression, "I merely parried your opening stroke – if I was incapable of doing as much, I daresay I would make a poor mountebank for our exalted sovereign. And I do not require you to flatter me."

"Of course," blustered Virion, looking deflated. "I meant only – "

"Shall we commence?" Soleil overrode him impatiently, and even with her simplest maneuver she soon had the viscount off-balance – though he hardly ceased his stream of half-formed compliments as he struggled to fend her off, Aveil noticed with a chuckle.

The day was mild; Soleil's handmaidens had laid a blanket out on the springy grass and were chatting amiably amongst themselves as they enjoyed afternoon tea, and every so often Timena would congratulate the princess on a particularly deft stroke. Aveil had politely refused to join the ladies-in-waiting for tea and conversation, preferring instead to remain on her feet with her gaze surreptitiously scanning the forest for disturbances – her promise to keep Soleil safe was ever at the forefront of her mind, and she meant to uphold it no matter the circumstances. A fair breeze rustled through the dark branches of the encroaching forest on occasion, every so often scattering the blanket with a handful of black leaves and earning a titter of disapproval from Soleil's ladies as they swept them aside, and the fourth time this happened Aveil was certain she glimpsed a shadowy figure partially concealed by the thickening boughs of the inner wood.

"Mind the princess," the Sceptrana bade Timena, whose laughter faded immediately and hardened into rapt vigilance, and taking up her scepter Aveil prowled toward the outermost edge of the forest and peered through the ominously-rustling leaves, listening intently. Above the whisper of the wind through the branches little else could be discerned, but Aveil was certain when the wind died down that she could hear a low voice speaking in hushed tones from somewhere deep within; tightening her grip upon the shaft of the scepter she stepped boldly within the perimeter of the trees, her every step soundless with caution and her ever-shifting gaze belying her devotion to her charge.

The woodlands of Thultanthar were hardly as extensive as the lush forests the Sceptrana had grown accustomed to in her time living in the World Below, but they were far different and, quite frankly, much more ominous. Within the forests of E'lastamor, where she and a precious few companions had dwelt for a time whilst evading capture from the fang dragon Rhadamanthus, life had teemed all around them every instant – birds flitted through the boughs and roosted overhead, deer bedded down in the thickets, rabbits and squirrels chased one another playfully through the untamed undergrowth. Perhaps most comforting of all, though, was the fact that no matter how dense the forest became there was always light to guide a lost traveler through to safety, whether the sun was at its zenith or it was high moonrise in midwinter. There was a reminder of the outside world, that beyond the encroaching leaves there was still life.

Picking her way with exaggerated care through the too-still boughs, Aveil could not escape the unwelcome sensation that at any moment she might be set upon by some vicious shadow denizen haunting the undergrowth. Thultanthar did not experience climate change the same way the surface dwellers did, thanks to the ever-present protective enchantments that enveloped the enclave – this meant that even on the windiest days only a gentle breeze could be felt sweeping throughout the city's bustling avenues, and inclement weather such as rain and snow were altogether nullified. Hence the trees were eerily still all around, and no wildlife called this forest their home – it was too foreboding, too alien, for any creature to ever feel truly safe there, and the sheer closeness of the skeletal tree branches was enough to make anyone feel a thrill of claustrophobia.

Aveil followed the whispers of an occasionally-heard voice, squinting through the gloom for any sign that she had been tricked or misled; the azure stone affixed to the head of her scepter cast its meager glow upon the nearest trunks like a sheen of frost caught in a shaft of silver sunlight, but it was hardly enough for her to distinguish any detail from the monochrome tapestry of grays and blacks that comprised the wood. The breeze played through the forested grove once more – the branches rustled their macabre symphony – and as Aveil stood frozen in the indistinguishable blackness she realized that the disembodied voice she had been following had died away on the wind. She turned back the way she had come, anxious to return to the field where the princess's handmaidens talked of idle pleasures and Soleil practiced her swordplay, only to find that the thicket of trees blotted out even the barest fragment of light and made no suggestion as to which direction she should go to find her freedom.

Her eyes scoured the deep darkness for clues, as though she hoped she might part the trees with the intensity of her gaze. The breath in her lungs stilled as her heartbeat quickened.

A hand clamped down upon her shoulder.

The Sceptrana whirled, Stygian Invidia clenched tightly in both hands; with her mind blank with fear she simply couldn't bring herself to stumble through the trigger phrase of a spell, so she did the only thing she could think to do and swung the scepter like a club. A black hand darted out, impossibly fast, and swatted the staff away as though it was little more inconvenient than an irksome fly; the chill glow of the azure gemstone glanced off distinctly noble features and reflected coolly in a pair of moonlight-bright eyes, and Fourth Prince Aglarel smirked in the face of Aveil's obvious alarm.

"My, my," chuckled Aglarel, eyes alight with malicious amusement, "whatever has you so skittish, Sceptrana?"

"Never you mind," snapped Aveil, for she was not about to admit to the hardened Fourth Prince that she was intensely uneasy just being in that close, gloomy wood. With suspicion in her voice she asked, "What in the Nine Hells are you doing in here? Was that you I heard talking?"

"Is that why you're skulking around in here?" asked Aglarel disapprovingly, his eyes narrowed as though he suspected foul play, and though the words irked her Aveil thought it would be a waste of her breath if she came to her own defense. There was little point in reminding Aglarel that her only motivation was to ensure the princess's safety, as she had been charged – it was in the Fourth Prince's nature to questions the motives of all those around him. Knowing that, Aveil was mildly surprised when Aglarel actually condescended to justify his actions – it was a rarity for him to explain the nature of his comings and goings to anyone, least of all someone who was decidedly beneath his station. "I had need of privacy – I was communing with Rapha, the little beast, who has at last delivered his first report despite the fact that the Army of Shade departed a fortnight past."

Aveil started – she had altogether forgotten that Aglarel and Rapha had forged a shadow bond prior to the army's exodus to the Underdark, enabling them to keep in constant contact with one another despite the miles between them. She had heard Soleil communing with Escanor on several occasions, and had been present twice when Rivalen had received correspondence from Yder; Clariburnus, she knew, was responsible for reporting the army's movements directly to the Most High. "Has he told you anything of import? How fares the army's advance?"

Oddly Aglarel snickered at that, but Aveil came to understand why quickly enough. "It seems Clariburnus chose to enter the Underdark through an ancient landmark in the forests of Evereska – the Well of Dragons." When Aveil visibly winced the Fourth Prince chuckled bemusedly and finished, "I take it by your reaction that you are at least familiar with it?"

"I know that it is the dwelling place of one of the oldest and foulest dragons yet alive in Faerun," Aveil confessed with a delicate shudder, "though of course I have not seen the Well for myself – I have only heard over the years the salacious rumors that Orukurtz slumbers within, enslaving even the most cerebral of Underdark dwellers such as beholders and mind flayers. Ridiculous, of course." Aveil chuckled politely into the back of her hand but stopped abruptly at the stony expression Aglarel had adopted, which prompted her to add, "By the grace of Shar… Do not tell me there is any truth to such claims?!"

"Clariburnus and Rapha slew the wyrm, but they experienced great difficulty. Rapha told quite the farfetched tale of Clariburnus being sent to an alternate dimension and gallantly fighting off wraiths whilst he engaged the dragon single-handedly." Aglarel's tone suggested that he felt the story deserved no credence, but there was a lingering uncertainty near his eyes that contradicted all he had said. "Both sustained injuries that have since mended, and even now the army is mobilizing in tunnels that will lead to the outskirts of Menzoberranzan."

Aveil considered this, mulling over the information she had and dredging up all the lore she knew of Underdark-dwelling dragons; Aglarel searched her face for clues, his eyes almost ghostly in the faint glow emanating from the azure stone of her staff. At length she said tentatively, "There may be truth to what Rapha has told you. Purple dragons are rare, but they are known to possess psychic abilities." Aglarel's expression darkened at this, a clear indicator that somehow he was displeased to hear that Rapha's tales were not fiction, and Aveil reached what she knew to be the right conclusion straightaway. "You still wish you had been given permission to go with them."

"Of course I do," scoffed the Fourth Prince in obvious impatience. "Conflict calls to each of us on the basest, most primal level – we are the sons of Lord Shadow, after all. And more than that…" Aglarel's shoulders slumped forward a fraction, a clear indication of the inner turmoil he had tried so valiantly to conceal of late, before he recovered himself and finished, "…You know what I am. I believe I was born and bred for war, trained to be the perfect instrument to carry out the High Prince's retribution in all things. That I am not a part of this… That I have been confined to the enclave because of what I am… It weighs heavily upon my conscience. I have spent hundreds of years molding myself into the kind of man that can be most useful to the Most High. Knowing that he now prefers to entrust his most important matters into the hands of others is disconcerting."

Aveil worried her bottom lip between her teeth for a long moment and considered Aglarel's words with great care, for it was not often that he offered her a glimpse into his personal life and rarer still that he allowed anyone even the briefest insight into his emotional state. Knowing that she had comforted him on previous occasions and that his demeanor had turned surly soon after she considered that a different tactic might result in a more favorable reaction, both for herself and for him. Fixing her eyes upon his own she sucked in a quick breath of uncertainty; those cool silver eyes of his were hardening with each passing moment that she withheld her response, and before he could fully withdraw himself from her she said, "Have you ever considered allowing yourself to feel what you feel?"

His sharp intake of breath was all the answer she required; beneath the gently-undulating umbral murk that enveloped all shades Aglarel's posture was suddenly tense with stress, his arms rigid at his sides and his hands clenched into fists. "How could you possibly suggest - ?!"

Boldly Aveil stretched out her hand and caught him by the wrist; predictably he recoiled, as was the norm, but this time the Sceptrana battled back her fear of reprimand and held on, the tips of her fingers digging insistently into the tender flesh beneath the heel of his hand. It was somewhat unnerving to feel the veins beneath the skin when the pressure yielded no pulse but Aveil hung on undaunted; the turmoil in Aglarel's face was difficult to bear, so much so that she felt that if she tried to bear it in silence she would go mad. "You have struggled to contain that which drives you since the moment the High Prince set it free - perhaps you aren't meant to. Could it not be that the man you are destined to be is buried somewhere deep within you, fighting even now for his release? Is it not possible that the High Prince awakened your Erinye blood because you are meant to use it to accomplish something that would be otherwise impossible?"

"Absurd," Aglarel spat intolerantly. "Surely the Most High never meant for me to be reduced to _this_ – I am utterly inhuman at times. I am prone to fits of rage that are triggered by even the most insignificant happenstances. I lose the grip I have over my darkest, most unrealized desires at the most inopportune moments. My life was once built on my own self-control and discipline, and those principles are now crumbling around me. And you suggest that the High Prince _meant_ for this to happen?!"

"There is much to be said for a lack of self-control and discipline," the Sceptrana mused quietly, as much to herself as to him; there was a pensive gleam in her eyes now, made all the more unworldly by virtue of the cool glint of the staff that dangled all but forgotten from her slackened fingertips. "I lived my younger years as frivolously as anyone ever has, and I attribute the successes I have found here to my lifetime of foolishness. I could never have become the person I am today had I not been that person first."

It wasn't often that the Fourth Prince of Shade found himself at a loss for words but Aveil's heartfelt admittance left him floundering momentarily; in his distress he attempted yet again to withdraw his arm from her grasp but she held on, and the stubbornness he glimpsed in her eyes alleviated much of the tension. The Aveil he had met back when she had still reigned as Archmistress of the Citadel of Assassins was stalwart and conniving, and the momentary return of those characteristics was heartening somehow.

"Stop," Aveil snapped, and it was the sternest tone she had ever dared to take with him. "Feel."

"Aveil, you know that I can't." There followed the soft pull of the prince's Adam's apple as he swallowed feverishly, and with that simple reflex action his doubt escalated into real fear; Aveil felt her breath quicken involuntarily and her heart pound uncomfortably against her ribs, for in all the time she had been acquainted with him she was certain she had never seen him display even a hint of trepidation. "You of all people should be the most hesitant to channel those excesses, after the misfortune that nearly befell you those months ago! Twice I held your life in my hands, Aveil – _twice!_ – and were it not for the High Prince's intervention in the first instance and your own clever foresight in the second you would likely be dead now! And why?! Because when I allow my Erinye blood to take control I am a slave to it! I am a prisoner within my own mind!"

The memories Aglarel's words dredged up were far from pleasant ones, and Aveil was certain she would never forget them; it was hardly an exaggeration to say that had circumstances not been favorable in either instance her life would have been forfeit. The first time Aglarel had succumbed to his long-repressed devil heritage had been at his father's behest, for the Princes of Shade had been fighting for their lives and a drow priestess from Menzoberranzan had caught them all at unawares; knowing that only Aglarel could resist the effects of a daylight spell – something that in most cases was fatal to shades – the Most High had appealed to the slumbering Erinye blood that Aglarel had concealed his entire life. While it was true that the resulting flare of aggression had likely saved many lives Aglarel had utterly lost himself in the throes of his vengeful violence, and Aveil would have been caught in the crossfire had the High Prince himself not intervened at precisely the right moment. Later that same day Aglarel had sought her out with a mind to apologize, but self-control was still out of his reach and his tentative grip on restraint had proved inadequate; fortunately Aveil had foreseen the potential dangers and taken brutal but necessary steps to protect herself, but she knew well enough that Aglarel would bear the scars from that encounter for the rest of his days.

"You surrender out of desperation, and you fight for dominion every moment," Aveil corrected, certain she was right in this. "You must name the terms. You must choose the circumstances. Perhaps by succumbing in a situation that is more favorable to you, you will have more success in mastering yourself."

Logic warred with abhorrence in the prince's moonstone-bright eyes. "The risks – "

"Will be far greater if you submit out of fear," Aveil overrode him. "Do not be afraid. You are the Fourth Prince of Shade, the bravest and strongest of them. Fear is beneath you."

With the Sceptrana's words, it seemed, Aglarel's eyes became frozen wide and unseeing as he struggled to acquiesce to her unorthodox request; for her part Aveil stayed very still and stared him directly in the eye, terrified of what might transpire but grimly determined to help him see this through to whatever conclusion they reached. As she watched his moonstone eyes gradually shifted hues, first to that startling ruby that Aveil attributed with the prince's complete loss of control; Aglarel snarled aloud and twisted his hand, and at first Aveil was certain he meant to strike her but instead he simply ripped his arm from her grasp and seized her hand in a near-crushing grip. She held on despite the fact that her fingertips were numb and tears pricked in her eyes, but she was rewarded for her persistence when after a handful of seconds the red tint to Aglarel's irises dulled a little, a mottled crimson as he fought to regain at least some semblance of control. He gritted his teeth and hissed sharply, a half-formed string of curse words that Aveil couldn't quite make out, and his hand was so warm that she was certain it would burn her skin if she held on for much longer. All around them the darkness pressed in, eerie and never-changing, and the too-still forest was silent save for the disjointed cadence of Aglarel's labored breathing.

"Your hand," Aglarel growled at last, his voice recognizable yet at the same time unfamiliar; there was a deeper, gravelly tone that Aveil had only heard once before, on that first fateful evening the Fourth Prince had surrendered in full to the devil blood coursing through him. His eyes upon her face were the unsettling dark crimson of freshly-spilt blood – was that a good sign, then, or was some horrible end rushing to meet Aveil even now?

Aveil glanced down at their hands still clasped tightly together between them, hers alabaster and bloodless in his vice grip, his black as the deepest pit of the Abyss, and wondered. "Yes."

"Your hand is cold." Aglarel was frowning down at her hand in his now, as though it had caused him some unforgivable personal offense; despite the expression of his discomfort he hardly loosened his grip, or condescended to release her. "That is what I feel."

This was hardly what Aveil had expected to hear – she had anticipated violence at the very worst, but this straightforward, almost calm observation effectively derailed her train of thought. After a long moment's silent contemplation she opted for the truth, hoping that logic would continue to keep Aglarel firmly rooted in reality. "I am part snow elf, after all. Our bodies are better suited for the frigid climes of the Spine of the World."

Aglarel pondered this quietly as Aveil wondered if the nigh-unbearable heat radiating from his flesh was a by-product of his heritage; by now her entire body was beginning to feel almost uncomfortably warm just from being in such close proximity to him. "Are you always this cold?"

"I suppose so." Aveil couldn't recall ever exchanging such meaningless words with the ever-serious Fourth Prince, but briefly she entertained the idea that something more was transpiring here than an idle conversation regarding her unusually low body temperature.

It was silent for a few moments as Aglarel seemed to wrestle with some private decision – Aveil watched his eyes subtly change colors a time or two, utterly fascinated by the prince's swiftly-changing demeanor – before he met her eyes again; there was a kind of uncharacteristic curiosity plain upon his face as well as other unnamed emotions that Aveil was certain she had never seen him display. His grip on her hand loosened a fraction but he did not release her; the Sceptrana flexed her fingers experimentally to restore a little circulation to the digits, but made no move to withdraw from him. This unspoken display of trust seemed to solve Aglarel's internal debate somehow and he drew himself up a little straighter as though in preparation for something.

"I am in complete control," he told her softly, though it seemed to Aveil that those frightening eyes of his were nearer to ruby now than they had been before. "Don't be afraid."

Exerting the barest pressure upon her hand Aglarel drew her nearer, every movement executed with exaggerated slowness and care; Aveil silently obeyed and drifted closer until they stood nearly flush, her eyes fixed stoically upon his though her heart was beating a frantic double-time. She couldn't help but wonder at the hesitation she sensed in his actions and whether it was for her benefit or his own: was he concerned for her well-being? Was he unsure of how tenuous his grip on control truly was, fearing he might lose himself at any time and become a danger to her? The hand that was not still resolutely clutching hers rose from his side and Aglarel's fingertips traced the pronounced curve of her cheekbone before brushing the hair behind her ear; the action might have been tender were it not for the terrifying red hue of his eyes, bright like flames and all-consuming. In all the time she had known him, Aveil had never personally witnessed Aglarel acting this way – it was confusing and almost alarming, and in its own way characterized a lack of control all its own.

The notion that she should at least attempt to talk some sense into him made itself known then but was abruptly chased away by the overwarm sensation of his fingertips grazing her jaw, and Aveil wondered if Aglarel noticed she was holding her breath. Some unspoken resolution solidified deep within the Fourth Prince's eyes.

The boughs of the trees directly behind Aveil rustled ominously despite the lack of breeze.

Aglarel's eyes flashed and an animalistic snarl ripped through his tightly-clenched teeth as he moved with the speed and grace of a natural-born killer; the muscles in his arm coiled and he pulled Aveil around, planting himself firmly between her and the threat lurking within the black forest nearby. Aveil tightened her grip on her staff, having all but forgotten it was still clutched numbly in her free hand, ready to aid Aglarel as necessary –

"Pray pardon my intrusion," murmured a familiar voice feebly, and with slouched shoulders and a guilty expression Seventh Prince Dethud stepped around the wide trunk of an old darkcedar with his hands raised defensibly before him.

Aglarel straightened out of his predator's crouch and eyed his younger brother with open disdain; Aveil cast him a worried sidelong glance but relaxed immediately to find that his eyes had returned to their typical silvery hue. "And just how long have you been skulking around in here?" snapped Aglarel, tugging his cowl back into place with a furious yank before crossing his arms over his chest. "I cannot say I care much for your eavesdropping."

"I did nothing of the sort," Dethud assured them, though as he drew closer and entered the circle of cool blue light emanating from the head of Stygian Invidia he alternated questioning looks between Aglarel and the Sceptrana; Aveil couldn't help but wonder just what he had seen or heard before making his presence known. "I called upon you at your residence but you were not there, so instead I sought the Sceptrana hoping she might disclose your whereabouts. One of the princess's handmaidens told me the lady had come into the forest to flush out some disturbance." At this he actually offered Aveil a seemingly genuine bow, finishing, "I beg your forgiveness."

"There is nothing to forgive, for I have nothing to hide," Aveil insisted, though she wasn't altogether certain this was true.

Aglarel, however, was less inclined to receive Dethud so kindly. "State your business, then, since you seem so convinced of its urgency."

The necromancer dragged in a breath, seemingly at a loss for words; upon studying him more closely it struck Aveil just how troubled he appeared, and trepidation gripped her with a sudden urgency. At her side, Aglarel's infuriated expression faltered a little in the face of his brother's distress. "It is… difficult… for me to know just where to begin," said Dethud haltingly, "so I must insist you be patient with me… This is a delicate matter. I was not certain who to approach at first, but knowing how closely to heart you hold the security of the enclave and the safety of all those who dwell here I came to the conclusion that you were the clear choice."

"If you feel the city is in danger, I would encourage you to take your concerns up with the High Prince," said Aglarel in a steely tone. "He will delegate the matter as he sees fit, I'm sure."

Dethud swiped the back of his hand across his brow, opening and closing his mouth a few times as he struggled for words; Aglarel watched each reflex action with a practiced eye, growing more suspicious with each passing moment. Aveil thought she understood why Dethud had chosen not to entreat the Most High for aid and voiced her suppositions aloud, confident that Aglarel would offer his support if Dethud reprimanded her for her boldness. "You are worried that bringing your fears to the High Prince would have consequences against you. You are more preoccupied with how your news might tarnish your reputation. That is why you've come."

For a moment Dethud's eyes blazed with uncharacteristic fury – Aveil found herself exceedingly grateful that Aglarel still stood between them – but his anxiety far outweighed any anger her words might have incited within him so it was short lived; presently he deflated and wrapped his arms around himself, though Aveil suspected this had little to do with the climate. Any skepticism Aglarel felt at Aveil's observation dissolved almost instantly in the face of Dethud's apprehension.

"I am ashamed to say you have the right of it," said Dethud, and the moment he resolved to tell all the timbre of his voice took a startling turn – hushed, hurried, desperate. "I fear that I have waited too long to impart what I know and placed us all in danger, but I suppose that cannot be helped now… The book is no longer safe here. There are other interested parties who have set their sights on it, and its location is known to them. I fear for the High Prince's safety while it remains in his possession."

Aglarel and Aveil exchanged a curious glance, for at first neither understood of what the necromancer was speaking; comprehension dawned in Aglarel's eyes quickly enough, though, and he regarded Dethud with lowered voice and narrowed eyes. "You speak of the _Imaskarcana_? The tome that imprisoned Brennus?"

Dethud wrung his hands feverishly and began to pace; in the dim light emanating from the head of Aveil's scepter he appeared as a wraith gliding along restlessly, malcontent in its cursed afterlife. Again he floundered for words, and it was clear in his face that he was considering just how much to divulge – he cast a sidelong glance at Aveil before addressing Aglarel directly, and it was suddenly clear what was giving him pause. "Brother, might we speak privately? So delicate a matter, after all…"

"You may speak freely in front of the Sceptrana," said Aglarel, his voice low with warning, and Aveil felt a warm pride welling up within her chest at his unexpected show of solidarity. "She has my trust – and the trust of the Most High, if you recall."

"Of course," Dethud agreed immediately, clearly eager not to anger his older brother, but with one last fleeting glance in Aveil's direction it was obvious that he would not have chosen to speak his mind in her presence had he not been commanded to. "Forgive me, Sceptrana, I meant no disrespect… Very well. I have it on good authority that the location of the Sixth _Imaskarcana_ is no longer a secret known only amongst the Shadow Court, and that those most interested in acquiring it for themselves will soon attempt to take it by force. I have no reason not to trust in the limitless strength and wisdom of our sovereign, but in this I feel we cannot afford to be remiss. The magic bound into those tomes is ancient, and mysterious, and dangerous… I could never forgive myself if through my negligence any harm befell the High Prince."

"I don't understand." Aglarel was watching Dethud pace with a haunted expression. "By whose authority have you come by this knowledge?"

It was plain in Dethud's sudden unease that they had reached a topic he would have preferred to avoid at all costs; his pacing stopped immediately and he wrung his hands yet again, unable to so much as look the Fourth Prince in the eye. Aveil had spent little time getting to know the necromancer in her service of the High Prince, but she had never known him to act this way – just bearing witness as his composure slowly unraveled was highly disconcerting. "I cannot say," he confessed at length, "but you must trust me on this. The book is not safe here – none of us are while it remains in our city."

"You cannot say?" echoed Aglarel incredulously. "Come, brother – you have never been one to withhold information of this magnitude, either from myself or from the Most High. What reason could you have to do so now?"

Dethud's face twisted unattractively as he struggled to form the right words. "I do not do so lightly," he said at length, "but I think it necessary in this case. The information that has been provided to me might be the key to ensuring our survival… Surely you understand that were I to say or do anything that might cause my informant to feel anything less than perfectly agreeable the flow of information would surely cease?"

"It seems to my mind that you are using this scenario as an excuse to share only the information that does not incriminate you." Aveil's words might have been accusatory but her tone was anything but – quite the contrary it was thoughtful and introspective, as though she had been presented with a puzzle that through diligence alone she hoped to solve. "As for your informant… I can see only one reason why you would refuse to disclose this person's identity: the High Prince would not approve of the camaraderie you've struck up, though precisely why I can only guess."

"Is this true?" snapped Aglarel, while Dethud veritably seethed in the face of the Sceptrana's cool logic.

"I cannot afford to stem the flow of information in this case," was all Dethud would condescend to share. "You cannot possibly imagine how valuable the source… The need for caution, Aglarel…"

"The need for caution is greater than you know," Aglarel informed him gravely, with the air of one on the cusp of divulging a closely-guarded secret, and Aveil cocked her head to one side curiously to observe him; Aglarel's arms remained crossed over his chest but his face was resigned, as though what he revealed now was against his better judgment. "The _Imaskarcana_ is not in the High Prince's possession. In his infinite wisdom he has chosen to pass it off to another to study in greater detail, in order to concentrate his efforts more fully on the campaign against Menzoberranzan."

Shades could not grow pale on account of their body's consistency, but in times of great distress the protective veil of shadows that clung to their forms could grow thin; this was precisely what happened to Dethud at this news, a dissipating of his umbral murk with such frightening swiftness that Aveil actually winced. "But don't you see?!" the Seventh Prince cried, lurching a step forward with his hands outstretched beseechingly. "It is now more imperative than ever that you help me! I worried for the High Prince when I thought the book in his possession, but in the hands of anyone but him… This is dire news indeed. Who has he given the book to?!"

"I was told not to say," said Aglarel flatly. "The High Prince has trusted to my discretion."

"Brother!" cried Dethud, now seizing the Fourth Prince by the shoulders, and to Aveil's eyes he appeared quite deranged. "I beg of you… We have already lost Brennus! Do not make me responsible for the death of another of our brothers! Please… I could not bear it… For me the agony is too great."

"How dare you," whispered Aveil in an accusatory undertone, her eyes upon Aglarel's face full of melancholy, for at the mention of Brennus the Fourth Prince's eyes had glazed over with a sudden wash of unnamed emotion. "How dare you use that tragedy to gain the upper hand here. How dare you inflict further pain simply to achieve your own ends."

Dethud shifted his disapproving gaze in her direction, the grit of his teeth and the severe set of his jaw promising silent retribution for her impertinence, but with Aglarel present the Seventh Prince didn't dare act for fear of exciting his brother to wrath. At last it occurred to Dethud that he was still holding fast to Aglarel's shoulders and hastily he released him, wisely putting several paces between them at once, but something about his heartfelt outburst seemed to have affected Aglarel somehow for he no longer looked quite as forbidding as before. The sidelong glance he shot Aveil was all the indication she needed that while her support was appreciated, it was not necessary – no one intimidated the Fourth Prince of Shade.

"Given the delicate nature of the situation I am willing to propose an exchange," said Aglarel, and though his eyes were unyielding he didn't quite sound as though he had regained his composure. "If you concede to tell me all that you know, I will not only tell you who is studying the _Imaskarcana_… I will personally aid you in safeguarding it. If you refuse to comply, on your own head be it – you will receive no such help from me, for I will not place my reputation at risk on account of bold rumors I can neither confirm nor deny. What say you?"

Dethud bowed his head in presumed shame, his shoulders slumped and his hands clenched into fists at his sides, and though he was the picture of remorse Aveil was certain she knew what his answer would be before he gave it. "Then I suppose I have no choice but to make do on my own," said Dethud rather mournfully, "for the risks of divulging all that I know are simply too great. There is a chance that I might yet learn something of dire importance, something that may lead Brennus back to us or even help in avoiding further disasters of a similar nature… How can I abandon such a prospect?"

"You risk much for mere suppositions," Aglarel pointed out acidly. "These ideas of yours are smoke and vapor – they have little substance to them. You may leave now, brother, since you have chosen to be of no help to us. The Sceptrana and I have much to discuss."

It was plain by the Seventh Prince's suddenly stricken expression that he cared little for this abrupt and remorseless dismissal, but as Aglarel was his superior there was hardly an argument he could make to the contrary; he managed a gracious bow of obeisance before turning away and dissolving into the deep shadows of the surrounding trees, and then Aglarel was facing Aveil with a grave look on his face.

"I haven't the slightest idea who Dethud's informant might be," the Fourth Prince admitted begrudgingly, "but I have never before had cause to question his judgment and feel that now would be a poor time to start. Let him deal with the sordid particulars of that arrangement. Our priority now must be the safeguarding of the _Imaskarcana_, and the defense of he who possesses it."

"Do you truly know who the High Prince has given the book to?" asked Aveil quietly, and Aglarel's lips twitched into a brief smile at the timidity of her tone.

"It is in Lamorak's keeping. The High Prince has tasked him with seeking Brennus out within its pages, in the hopes that he can be restored somehow. If Dethud's outlandish claims are true, and some unknown party is planning to take the book by force, it is our responsibility to notify Lamorak immediately."

As Aveil's duties for the day were not yet complete Aglarel escorted her out of the wood and back to the clearing where Soleil and her handmaidens were snickering over the princess's sound defeat of Viscount Virion before bidding the Sceptrana farewell and setting off on his own, and it was not without a certain measure of satisfaction that he stole into the Shadow Realm. Action had always given the Fourth Prince purpose, be it his covert protective detail as the High Prince's bodyguard or the upkeep of the enclave's protective enchantments or a particularly challenging assassination of an enemy of Thultanthar. In the weeks since the Army of Shade had been deployed he had been mostly idle, with only unimportant or meaningless pursuits to distract him from the ever-insistent call of his demon blood. Though he certainly didn't wish for discord to descend in his lord's realm he couldn't help but privately admit the threat of infiltration by a person or persons unknown was a welcome change – one that he fully intended to deal with swiftly and mercilessly as he was accustomed.

His initial instinct was to visit with Lamorak immediately for if the intruder's goal was to obtain the _Imaskarcana_ that placed the Third Prince directly in harm's way, but after a moment's consideration he changed course. He suspected that he would need to satiate his curiosity and answer a few lingering questions of his own before he lent Dethud's claims any real credence, so it was the necromancer's home at Villa Serana that Aglarel visited first. To avoid chatter amongst the housekeeping staff he shadow-walked directly onto the balcony overlooking the Circle, for the curtains were drawn for privacy and his admittance wouldn't be glimpsed by any prying eyes; the space within was dark and almost eerily silent, but Aglarel's keen eyes had little trouble discerning even the minutest detail in the gloom.

The classes Dethud taught in the Shadow Mages College, coupled with his private research in his necromancy chambers, left him with little time to lounge about his private quarters during the day; his lack of presence showed in the tidiness of the space, which exuded a feeling of general neglect. At first glance everything seemed in order – Aglarel actually turned to leave, certain he would find nothing of use there – but two details caught his eye that gave him pause, urged him to inspect the room more closely. Dethud's study desk was mostly tidy, its surface obscured by only a trio of rolled-up scrolls as well as a small stack of old necromancy tomes; trailing his fingertips along the dark wood Aglarel watched with fascination as a thin layer of dust was wiped clean by the movement, suggesting that perhaps it hadn't been utilized in some time. He then turned his eyes upward to where the finely-crafted pewter chandelier hung over his younger brother's four-poster bed, and even in the darkness he had no trouble spotting the thin silver strands stretched from the fixture to the ceiling, the first telltale signs of an intricate spider web forming.

"You haven't even been here," Aglarel murmured softly to himself, wondering at Dethud's absence and what it might mean. Even at his busiest Aglarel still found time to sleep a few hours here and there – even for shades sleep was necessary to keep their strength and awareness from slipping – and his housekeeping staff were trained well enough to keep his private quarters immaculately clean even when they weren't in use. For things to have fallen into such a state of disrepair –

There was only one reason Aglarel could think that the housekeeping staff of a Prince of Shade would neglect such a fundamental duty, and that was because they were doing so at their master's instruction.

"And if you don't want them here," Aglarel concluded, "it's because you're up to something you don't want them to see."

It was behavior most uncharacteristic of the reserved Seventh Prince, Aglarel silently acknowledged, picking his way somewhat distractedly through the Plane of Shadow as he contemplated his next move; like Aglarel, Dethud was mostly secretive in his conduct but had always adhered to the Most High's wishes to the letter, content to serve, entertaining fewer ambitions than most of the High Prince's progeny. He offered his opinion only when such a thing was requested of him and even then was thrifty with his words, giving him an air of great wisdom when he spoke, and his rather mild-tempered disposition had made him a sort of mediator amongst his brothers over the centuries. In short he was often viewed as a dependable sort, and the notion that he had something to hide was deeply unsettling to Aglarel, who had confided in Dethud many times in the greatest confidence.

He made his way next to Dethud's necromancy chamber in the lowest levels of the Shadow Mages College, a place he seldom visited for the eerie components and subzero temperatures the Seventh Prince preferred to keep there, but one glance around was all it took for Aglarel to feel certain he would find no further clues there. Dethud had always been quite particular of the organization of his workspace and there was nothing to suggest he had deviated from such preferences now – everything appeared to be in order, and nothing seemed out of the ordinary to Aglarel's keen eye. He left shortly after, vexed that not only was his younger brother entertaining potentially crucial secrets but also that it seemed he was destined not to uncover them, at least for the present.

Briefly Aglarel considered dropping in on Aveil and sharing the little he had discovered, but in the end he decided against it. The deductions he had made thus far were inconclusive – better not to complicate matters with baseless suppositions until he was more certain. Not to mention that the memory of how it had felt to have her too-chill skin beneath his hand still occupied his thoughts with an insistence that was nearly maddening, and he was hesitant to be in her company until he had sorted through his feelings on the matter.

He stubbornly shook the unwelcome thought aside as he navigated the gently-undulating curtains of umbral murk that comprised the Plane of Shadow. The ever-beguiling Sceptrana was at the bottom of his list of priorities - there were more pressing matters to attend to at the moment.

As Lamorak had seniority over him Aglarel showed him the proper respect by arriving at Villa Illumen on foot and knocking on the front door; one of the housekeepers ushered him indoors immediately and offered the expected niceties, but Aglarel was hardly listening. He scaled the staircase to the second floor landing and knocked once more on the door to Lamorak's private quarters, whereupon there issued a gasp of surprise, a great deal of scuffling about and shuffling of parchment, and then the door swung slowly open to reveal a disheveled-looking Lamorak clutching his head with one hand and a weathered old tome in the other.

Aglarel stood stock still in the doorway, suddenly unsure what to say. It was most unlike Lamorak to display weakness of any kind – a trait they both shared – and to see such an obvious display of discomfort from him was oddly unsettling. "Have I come upon you at an inopportune time?"

Lamorak swayed unsteadily in the doorway, dropping the hand from his brow and catching the doorframe to keep himself upright; Aglarel's eyes flashed again to the book, now trapped almost possessively at the Third Prince's side, and recognized the dragonhide cover of the _Imaskarcana_. "No," he growled insistently, his voice low and gravel-rough. "Quite the contrary I am grateful you came upon me when you did. I think it is high time I put this aside."

"Shall I take it for you?" Truth be told the Fourth Prince hoped he would not be asked to even so much as touch the book's cover – he was not nearly as well-versed in foreign magics as many of his brothers, but even he could feel the malcontent emanating from the tome.

The ghost of a smile appeared on Lamorak's face but it was brief; straightening he nearly pitched forward again, but Aglarel caught him at the arm to keep him upright. "Thank you, but I do not think that would be wise," admitted Lamorak, and crossing the threshold Aglarel kicked the door shut behind him and steered his older brother to an unoccupied stretch of mattress – difficult to come by, as the bedspread was mostly obscured by loose sheaves of parchment and tattered books with worn bindings. Lamorak sat with a grateful sigh before setting the _Imaskarcana_ aside seemingly as an afterthought – this seemed to pain him, Aglarel noticed shrewdly, but the instant the book was no longer in his arms Lamorak's expression became a little less vacant and his pallor noticeably improved.

"You must forgive my unseemly appearance," Lamorak joked in a hoarse voice, both hands automatically reaching up to massage his temples.

"And you must forgive my straightforwardness," Aglarel bade him pointedly, "but I urge you to exercise caution. I do not wish to lose a second brother to that damned book."

"I appreciate your concern, but I can assure you I am taking all care in this," Lamorak insisted. "Handling the book for too long can be… taxing… but I am always careful to keep my wits about me. I simply lost track of time."

Aglarel stood there a moment, studying Lamorak's face appraisingly as he considered how much to divulge, before opting for a straightforward approach. "You will need your wits about you before long, if Dethud is to be believed. He approached me not long ago with the most intriguing news – that an outside party has learned that the _Imaskarcana_ resides here, and is preparing to infiltrate the city and claim it by force if need be."

Lamorak lifted his head at once, eyes tired but alert. "Who has told him as much? How could he have possibly come by such information?"

"As of yet I have only speculations, each as unlikely as the next." The Fourth Prince's eyes were fixed upon the floor as he brooded, one hand stroking his chin thoughtfully, and Lamorak knew his brother well enough to recognize when he was troubled. "It isn't like Dethud to withhold such sensitive information, but I all but threatened him if he chose not to cooperate and his stance on the matter did not change. He claims he does not want to reveal his informer's identity for fear that in doing so he might stem the flow of vital information, but my instincts tell me this is an excuse."

The Determinist Prime was nodding along as he dropped his hands from either side of his face. "He is protecting this person."

Aglarel hummed his agreement in the back of his throat, having arrived at a similar conclusion while traversing the Shadow Realm on the way to Villa Illumen. "But why?"

Lamorak was frowning severely down at where the Sixth _Imaskarcana_ lay, feeling simultaneously as though he should consult it for answers and set it on fire; he resisted both urges in the end by pointedly retrieving a stack of late Queen Maedra's journals, arranging them meticulously until they lay together spine-against-spine, and deliberately setting them on top of the _Imaskarcana_ so that the face of the tome was completely obscured from view. When next he met Aglarel's eyes it was to find the assassin had cracked a rueful smile of approval, which Lamorak returned readily, but the expression was fleeting and Aglarel returned to business almost immediately.

"I did not come simply to offer a warning," Aglarel confessed, crossing to the floor-to-ceiling curtains and twitching them back to reveal the balcony as well as a stunning view of the enclave; Lamorak blinked owlishly, grateful for the fresh air as he pondered just how long it had been since he had so much as left his room. He watched Aglarel habitually tug his cowl down over his face as he took up a vigil on the left side of the balcony, arms crossed as he looked out over the Circle, seeming to consider carefully his words before saying, "I came to inquire after the doppelganger."

The desperate, heartbroken look with which Phendrana had regarded Lamorak the last time he had visited was still at the forefront of the Third Prince's mind despite the hours he had spent studying the _Imaskarcana_; Aglarel's inquiry, while non-invasive, incited a flicker of protective anger within Lamorak's chest that prompted him to lay one hand over the precise spot where his heart had once beat in quiet introspection. He couldn't imagine what use Aglarel had for Phendrana, but he was certain it would demand more than the troubled mindmaster was mentally equipped to offer at present. "If you are inquiring after his health, I can assure you that he is quite well."

Aglarel scoffed; Lamorak glanced up in surprise to find his younger brother gazing back at him stonily. "Anyone with even an ounce of self-awareness would argue otherwise," said the assassin disdainfully. "Though he continues to attend to the High Prince in the capacity expected of his station, he can hardly be considered _present_ – his body may be with us but his mind is in another place entirely. The High Prince has been asking questions, and as I can hardly call myself the doppelganger's boon companion I am ill equipped to answer them. I believe I may have a use for him, but before I put to him my proposal I must first seek answers to the High Prince's inquiries."

There was a dull ache forming in Lamorak's head, becoming more insistent and more uncomfortable with each second that ticked by; he resisted the urge to set his fingertips to his temples again, for he was certain he already appeared quite a mess and had no desire to display further weakness to his always-collected brother. It was not at all surprising to learn that the Most High had expressed concern over Phendrana's mental state – Lamorak had expected to hear as much before today, truth be told – but it was deeply troubling to hear as much from a third party. Phendrana was still considered to be in Lamorak's care, and by association any scandal upon his name would tarnish the Third Prince's own reputation as a result; more than that, though, Lamorak couldn't help but admit to himself his genuine concern for Phendrana's overall well-being. The High Prince had once felt inclined to utterly destroy Phendrana on the certainty that his usefulness had run its course; Lamorak couldn't imagine how shamelessly Brennus had needed to beg their sovereign to spare the doppelganger, and he never wanted to land in a position that demanded he do the same – he was no longer certain he possessed enough dignity to keep from doing so if need be.

"What is it the High Prince wishes to know?" Lamorak at last queried aloud, hoping that his trepidation didn't bleed into his words.

If Aglarel identified his older brother's discomfort, he did well not to suggest as much. "Merely why it is that the doppelganger seems so detached from matters of state. He offered only a few words on the subject of war with Menzoberranzan and was not present at the palace when the army departed for the Underdark. He has withheld his opinion on all other matters, try as the others might to engage him. It is disrespectful, to say the very least. The High Prince has granted the doppelganger a considerable amount of leniency since he found his way into our fold – Shar forbid that such kindness be repaid with negligence."

"The Most High blames me for Phendrana's obvious lack of interest," Lamorak stated flatly, his tone making it clear that this was not a question.

"The Most High expects you to have an answer, since you favor the doppelganger's cause above all others," Aglarel corrected coolly, and Lamorak inwardly cursed himself for ever allowing Phendrana to worm his way so irrevocably into his once-steadfast heart. Instead of admitting as much aloud – to speak of his emotional attachments in Aglarel's company would surely prove disastrous – Lamorak ran a hand down his face and resigned to share the little he had managed to piece together through time and careful observation.

"I too assumed Phendrana had begun to develop a lack of interest in the High Prince's affairs," the Third Prince admitted wearily, "but I no longer believe this to be the case… rather, there is something preoccupying his thoughts in such totality that he has little room to fathom anything else. His mental defenses are so formidable that even with my training I can glean only the occasional glimpse within his mind, but something has changed in him that I have yet to identify. I know only that there is a deep darkness within him, and that it is corrupting his thoughts like a cancer."

Aglarel rolled his eyes in apparent disgust, though Lamorak was certain he witnessed a softening near the corners of the assassin's eyes that suggested perhaps he felt more sympathetic than he was letting on. "He is allowing his grief over the loss of Brennus to poison his mind."

"No," Lamorak disagreed at once, "Brennus's disappearance is a far more recent occurrence – our brother has been imprisoned within the _Imaskarcana_ for a tenday only, and Phendrana's drastic change of heart is longer lived than that."

Aglarel briefly considered this before conceding the logic somewhat begrudgingly. "So it is."

"It is my belief that Hadrhune's passing has played a part in Phendrana's despondency," Lamorak mused, and Aglarel jerked his head up almost angrily – there had been no love lost between the High Prince's chosen emissary and the Fourth Prince of Shade, and Aglarel's enmity toward Hadrhune had hardly faded with the seneschal's death.

"Hadrhune was even less a friend to Phendrana than I am," pointed out Aglarel with a disbelieving snort, and Lamorak rolled his eyes in the face of his brother's uncharacteristic narrow-mindedness. "What reason would the doppelganger have to mourn him? All that Hadrhune did, he did on Lim Tal'eyve's suggestion – that poor judgment is responsible for the fate that has befallen Brennus, at least in part. Phendrana should hate him."

"Phendrana has an exceedingly gentle heart, despite the natures of those he has chosen to serve." At last Lamorak abandoned his chair, compelled in his introspection to seek the fresh air rolling in from the balcony; judging by the arid heat clinging to the air he guessed that summer had come to the World Below, and vaguely he wondered if Phendrana ever longed to return to the lands with which he had once been so familiar. The doppelganger had occupied his thoughts so frequently of late that Lamorak felt intensely lonely, despite the fact that Aglarel stood at his side as they gazed together out at the Circle. "Hate is not an emotion that comes easily to him, but sympathy is something he gives freely. He would have felt intensely sympathetic to Hadrhune's motivations. He would have understood Hadrhune's need to sacrifice himself, for it is a need that Phendrana has experienced firsthand on multiple occasions. In the final moments of Hadrhune's life, Phendrana likely formed a strong kinship with him… in those moments, he likely knew Hadrhune far better than any of us ever did."

"Is there a point mixed up in your flowery harangue?" Aglarel's patience had long since run thin – often Lamorak overlooked the fact that the Fourth Prince had never been one to bandy pleasantries, preferring to reach the crux of any matter quickly so he could return to his duties.

Lamorak uttered one last tiny sigh, bracing his hands upon the balcony's guardrail and resting his weight upon his locked arms. "My apologies… my point is only that Phendrana has ample reason to mourn Hadrhune's passing, perhaps more so than any of us. The loss hurts all the more when such a bond is formed… Perhaps even more so for Phendrana, who has long felt that all those he grows close to inevitably perish in the end."

"I will concede your logic, but only to a point," Aglarel argued, joining his brother at the rail. "I still see no reason why Phendrana's despair would impede his duties. Even Soleil, who feels responsible for the fate that has befallen Hadrhune, has thus far managed to continue to aid the High Prince in the capacity to which she is accustomed. But I digress, for this is not why I've come here, and I can spare little more of my time in your company."

Curiosity and suspicion warred in Lamorak's expression, but he answered agreeably enough. "You would inquire after Phendrana's well-being for personal reasons, and not simply on the High Prince's order?"

"You have the right of it," confessed the Fourth Prince readily. "I mean to enlist the doppelganger if I can. I cannot in good conscience trust Dethud with these sensitive matters when I know for a fact he is withholding valuable information from me, and though I am certain the Sceptrana will offer her aid earnestly her duties to safeguard the princess will surely claim the majority of her time. I will not request help from you knowing the importance of the task the High Prince has given you, and I do not trust in the competence of many others. Phendrana has proven to be a dedicated and trustworthy ally in the past. If you think he will pledge his support to this cause, I would speak with him."

Protectiveness surged again within Lamorak's breast with such strength that this time the Determinist Prime had difficulty sublimating it – fortunately Aglarel, lost in his own musings, seemed not to notice Lamorak's intense internal struggle. "Even knowing how fragile his mental state is, you would still ask for his help? You must be desperate indeed, brother."

Aglarel smirked ruefully, for the irony had not been lost on him. "We must seek out help wherever it can be found, and I can think of no one else who suffers prophetic visions on a near-constant basis. If there is anything that can be learned without consulting Dethud directly, the doppelganger will likely be privy to it already."

Lamorak started and turned away from the balcony, his eyes wide and distraught, and Aglarel's hopes wavered. "Do you not know? The dreams have subsided. He does not See as he once did."

"What?!" Aglarel roared. "Since when…?!"

Lamorak shrugged his shoulders once, looking utterly defeated. "The last time he glimpsed events to come was many months ago, when he foresaw Lim's death at the hands of the drow priestess. He has divined nothing of the future since that day." Seeing that Aglarel was preparing to launch into a tirade of questions he couldn't possibly answer Lamorak raised a hand to stay those queries, continuing, "I haven't a clue as to what might have caused the loss of his Sight, but do keep in mind that we never did determine by what design he was made to See in the first place. It may have been a by-product of his premature transformation at Brennus's hands, or it might have been imposed upon him by some higher power that has yet to make itself known – consequently the tragedies that have befallen him in recent weeks might have robbed him of his Sight, or that same fickle power that granted him his gift simply deemed it was time to take it back. Regardless of the _why_, I cannot tell you the _how_."

"Then our advantage is lost," Aglarel concluded, running a hand down his face, and Lamorak shrugged yet again.

"If you choose to see things in such a light I can hardly dissuade you, but I choose to trust in the many talents Phendrana still possesses and I see no reason why you shouldn't do the same. Even without his Sight he is still a formidable ally – he has long since mastered the art of telekinesis and his grasp of psionic magic is astounding, not to mention the mindmaster abilities he was utilizing long before he became a shade. He will be useful to you – I urge you to speak with him, if that is still your wish."

Aglarel shook his head once as though trying to shake off an irksome fly, irritation plain on his face; Lamorak supposed Aglarel would be receptive to little else they spoke of when he was in such an obviously black mood. "Mention it to him if you will. I haven't the time to seek him out now – I must ensure the enclave's defenses are as fortified as they may be, and I must see if there is any more I can learn of Dethud's outrageous claims." He gestured at the _Imaskarcana_, which Lamorak had not once forgotten despite his attempts to keep it out of sight, and added, "You will take care in your study of the book? I haven't the time to keep watch over you."

Lamorak stifled a smile, knowing it would only worsen Aglarel's temperament, but he knew a display of genuine concern when he saw one and couldn't help the wash of gratitude it brought on. Despite his ever-rough exterior Aglarel displayed hints of real empathy at times, if one only knew how to identify it beneath all the cynicism. "I will do my best to be cautious. Far be it from me to hinder you in your duties."

The Fourth Prince huffed as though inconvenienced but dropped a hand down upon his older brother's shoulder all the same before shadow-walking away in a shower of miniscule black particles, returning to the secretive duties he so rarely divulged with anyone other than their sovereign; Lamorak stood at the guardrail of the balcony for a few minutes longer, mulling over all that had transpired and silently cursing himself for not taking the High Prince's counsel deeply enough to heart. The day that the Most High had enlisted Lamorak's aid in further developing Phendrana's shadow abilities he had warned the Third Prince not to allow himself to become too involved in the doppelganger's personal affairs, and that keeping himself emotionally distanced was imperative to the success of the operation; never one to feel even the slightest bit interested in any matters that didn't pertain directly to the High Prince's mandate, Lamorak had not given much thought to the latter of these two warnings and now wished he had handled that particular matter much differently. He was unaccustomed to the empathy he had begun to feel toward the doppelganger in recent weeks and couldn't say that he found any satisfaction in such emotions, but to spurn Phendrana's companionship after allowing him to grow so close could prove troublesome. Uttering a barely audible sign of frustration he turned back to his bedchamber, wondering if he had rested his mind enough to attempt the translation of another page of the _Imaskarcana_.

He halted abruptly just inside the curtain, for another guest had admitted himself during the Third Prince's musings.

The creature Lamorak now faced was clearly not a denizen of Thultanthar, and at first glance he could not even begin to guess which province the intruder might have hailed from. His skin was an odd shade of gray reminiscent of stone not often seen above ground and he wore simple robes emblazoned with runes Lamorak was certain he had never once glimpsed in his exceptionally long lifetime. His hair was black as a raven's feathers, sleek and long and straight, and within his almost-gaunt face he studied Lamorak with unnerving fascination through eyes the color of polished jade. He carried something in the crook of his right arm with obvious reverence and possessiveness, and when his eyes shifted to examine it Lamorak started – it was a ponderous tome that was almost sickeningly familiar, for there was no mistaking the eccentric cover and unique pages bound into of one of the volumes of the _Imaskarcana_. Lamorak could only assume this trespasser was the one Aglarel had cautioned him about just minutes before, and couldn't help wondering whether he'd admitted himself during their conversation. How much had he heard? What exactly did he know?

Only then did Lamorak realize that his assumed adversary was standing just a few feet away from where the Sixth _Imaskarcana_ still lay, mostly concealed beneath a stack of other tomes heaped haphazardly on one side of his bed. The feeling of panic that welled up within his chest almost sent him into a frenzy – how could he have set such a precious item aside even for a single moment?! – that he barely sublimated with every ounce of willpower he possessed. There was still a chance that this intruder had not yet seen the tome, or that he didn't possess the arcane acumen to sense the subtle magics emanating from its cover, and if he drew attention to it now he ran the risk of forfeiting it.

"Fair day to you," the unnamed man finally spoke up, his voice far warmer and friendlier than Lamorak himself was feeling at the moment. "I pray you forgive my intrusion. Allow me to introduce myself to you – I am Voltain Darkydle, Lord Artificer of Deep Imaskar."

He had the gall to extend a hand in greeting, as though he considered them casual acquaintances who were poised to become fast friends, and the sheer audacity transformed Lamorak's panic into white-hot rage; the Third Prince glared down at the proffered extremity with all the enmity he could muster, and though eventually Voltain dropped his arm back to his side he did not seem even the least bit put out by Lamorak's frosty reception.

"I had hoped we might make this exchange peaceably," said Voltain with presumed remorse, "but I see that I hoped in vain. The Netherese Imperium was once held in such high esteem… surely your ancestors would despair to see what mean creatures their descendants have become."

"You have the audacity to expect a grand reception into the City of Shade?" Lamorak managed to growl through tightly clenched teeth, now so furious with this intruder that he could scarcely form the words. "You admit yourself without permission, you invite yourself into the private residence of a member of the Tanthul royal family, you fully intend to apprehend something that doesn't belong to you by force if need be, and still you expect me to welcome you as a kindred spirit? I will commend your abilities, for you are quite skilled indeed to have made it even this far, but I cannot help but question your judgment."

A faint crease appeared between Voltain Darkydle's thin black eyebrows, the only hint Lamorak had of the other man's distress; perhaps it was simply a by-product of his heightened emotions, but the Third Prince would have sworn the book cradled in the crook of the Lord Artificer's arm had begun to shimmer faintly. "Why should I seek permission to reclaim what is, by right, property of the descendants of Imaskar? It is only through the deceitful actions of the treacherous drow in your company that you have come by the Sixth _Imaskarcana_ at all – it should be in possession of those who better understand it, and who are able to use it if the dire need arises. Forgive me for saying so – you have made it plain that you are a man of authority in this place, so of course I do not wish to offend – but I highly doubt you are even capable of reading it. What use could it possibly be to you?"

The suggestion that Lamorak was ill equipped to handle a priceless artifact that the High Prince himself had charged him with mastering touched a nerve, wounded the prince's high pride, but he knew better than to admit as much to his adversary. "You would be wise not to underestimate a Prince of Shade… I understand it better than you know."

Voltain smiled indulgently, and it was apparent by his demure expression that he wasn't fooled by Lamorak's bluff for even a moment. "Oh, I'm certain you do."

The Third Prince's rage reached a boiling point then, for only that fickle emotion could have forced him to utter the biting yet foolish reply he next heard himself say. "If you question my knowledge or my capabilities, you are more than welcome to test them – but I warn you, your slight against my arcane prowess will prove your undoing."

"Oh, Prince," lamented the Lord Artificer, and releasing the weighty tome he carried Lamorak watched in dismay as it hovered before him of its own accord, cover falling open as if it had a life all its own, magically rifling through pages as if an invisible hand sought a particular page, "you do not know the gravity of the mistake you are making."

The unseen crackle of barely-contained magical energy was the only warning Lamorak received before the Lord Artificer launched his first spell, a devastating gale that cut through his private chambers like invisible knife-points; Lamorak strafed to one side and flung himself behind one of the bookcases that lined the easternmost wall, shielding his eyes with one arm and watching with alarm as the lashing winds sliced through the fine bed furnishings, the rippling floor-to-ceiling curtains, the finely polished wood of his study desk. Voltain stood within a shimmering, nigh-invisible shield and watched him expressionlessly, neither concerned that he had survived the initial attack nor impressed by his survival instinct, and with one hand hovering over the open volume of the _Imaskarcana_ he waited patiently until he spied the spell he next wished to cast. Lamorak knew even as the feeble shelter of his bookcase began to slowly chip away beneath the razor winds that if he was to have any hope of surviving this encounter he needed the Sixth _Imaskarcana_ in his hand in the next few moments, but he couldn't see how he might possibly reach it now – to leave his current position was surely to die, and Voltain stood between him and the object of his salvation.

He recalled his hours of diligent study of Third Queen Maedra's journals, the painstaking translations of Roushoum into Netherese that had consumed the last several days of his life, and struggled to form the correct words of a simple summoning charm. _"Come… to me."_

Miraculously the words he spoke were a rough but passable command in Roushoum, and stretching one hand out he watched, mystified, as the Sixth _Imaskarcana_ dislodged itself from beneath the precariously-stacked tower of his mother's journals and shot through the gale toward him; the moment he clamped his hand down upon the weathered dragonhide cover of the tome he felt an almost overwhelming wash of emotions speed through him, courage and security and strength the likes of which he had never known, and squaring his shoulders he locked gazes with a now-furious Voltain.

_"__Stop,"_ Lamorak commanded, his dialect imperfect but confident, and with the sound of a thunderclap the tome he held burst open and the howling razor-wind gale abruptly ceased at his order.

"You are better versed in Roushoum than I would have guessed any non-Imaskar could possibly be," Voltain observed begrudgingly, "but it matters not in the end. The _Imaskarcana_ belongs with me, and with my people. No power you can muster will impede me from taking it back with me."

The image of Twelfth Prince Brennus imprisoned within a fine vellum page conjured itself before Lamorak's eyes then and he gripped the spine of the book tighter, steadfast, prepared to give everything he had to defy his adversary. "As long as there is life in my body you will not take this book from me. Whether you are the true master of the _Imaskarcana_ is irrelevant, for there is more at stake here than you know."

There might have been a flicker of understanding deep within Voltain's eyes at those words, but any sympathetic response he might have uttered was quashed beneath the weight of his resolution. "My whole race now depends upon me to lead us back to the golden age of prosperity our forefathers once carved into the annals of history for us… I think it is you who does not fully grasp the magnitude of the stakes here."

"Then I will show you the strength of my conviction, and my need," Lamorak promised solemnly, and lifting his free hand to hover over the open tome he prayed for strength.

Phendrana was lounging in his private quarters within Villa Tareia, enjoying some quiet leisure time with Lux and reading from one of the books he had procured from the Grand Library, when his right hand grew unbearably hot for seemingly no reason at all and he was assailed by the most dreadful sense of alarm he had ever felt. The book slipped from his hand as he sat bolt upright where previously he had been sprawled out upon his mattress, and the hand that was not burning lifted itself to his forehead seemingly against his will as he uttered a soft cry of pain.

Lux was at his side in an instant, sage eyes scouring his master's face with a wisdom far beyond his youthful appearance. "Lord Phendrana? What ails you?"

The mindmaster chose not to answer right away, for as his vision cleared he was able to identify the source of his distress – the ring he wore upon his finger, the mithril band forged in the shape of the infinity symbol that Brennus had spent months in isolation enchanting to perfection, was searing his skin with such intensity that tears pricked the backs of his eyes. Even Hadrhune, who normally went out of his way to appear disinterested in Phendrana's affairs, stirred from within the annals of the doppelganger's subconscious and crooked an eyebrow in vague curiosity. _What in the Nine Hells is that?_

"This is the ring that Brennus forged for me, the symbol of our eternal bond and the shield against the mental chaos that would surely plague my mind were I not wearing it." Somehow Phendrana knew what it meant, though of course he never could have explained just how he knew. "He's in danger."

"Who?" asked Lux concernedly, assuming that Phendrana was addressing him.

_Who?_ Hadrhune echoed sardonically, thoroughly enjoying watching Lux's confusion through the doppelganger's eyes.

"Brennus." Phendrana had already pushed himself off the bed and was hurriedly patting himself down, ensuring all of his magical effects were already on his person. "Brennus is in trouble. I must go to him at once."

"Lord Phendrana…" Lux began, torn between presenting the logical response and causing his friend any further distress.

Hadrhune, of course, was hardly concerned with wounding the mindmaster's psyche with the hard truth. Of course he's in danger, fool – he can hardly be considered among the living in his current state. Surely you see the futility in rushing to the aid of a man who exists only within the page of an ancient spellbook.

"Shut up," growled Phendrana, forgetting for a moment that he wasn't alone in the room and regretting his lack of tact immediately when Lux's face fell.

"My apologies," said Lux stiffly, horrified that he had offended his master.

"I'm not talking to you," Phendrana explained in a rush, which only served to confuse the poor boy further for of course at first glance it seemed they were the only two people present; instead of explaining the doppelganger darted out the door, pounding down the hall to the staircase and launching himself down the steps three at a time in his haste to reach the door with Lux sprinting through the foyer on his heels. "It's the ring, he must have been wearing it when he was… No, stay _here,_ Lux!" He was pelting through The Circle now, oblivious to the fact that Lux had stubbornly ignored his order as he weaved through the throng of lesser nobles milling aimlessly about the pavilion. "If he's in trouble it can only mean that Lamorak is in trouble!"

_Of course,_ Hadrhune conceded, his demeanor subtly shifting from dark amusement to deadly focus in barely an instant as Phendrana approached the gates of Villa Illumen at a run. _Because Prince Lamorak is in possession of the Imaskarcana – whoever threatens one threatens both._

"But who would pose such a danger?" Phendrana admitted himself without so much as knocking, causing quite the commotion amongst the Third Prince's housekeeping staff – all of whom he ignored as he flew up the stairway to the second floor landing. "Very few people know that he possesses the book."

_That we know of,_ the seneschal reminded gravely, and then the doppelganger flung the door to the Third Prince's private quarters open wide without so much as considering the terrible danger he might be rushing headlong into.

It was the strangest, most unexpected and most frightening battle he had ever had the misfortune of stumbling upon. At the far end of the room he glimpsed Third Prince Lamorak with a shimmering spellbook laying open in the crook of one arm, his entire body swathed in ancient magic so devastating that Phendrana could feel the minute ripples that its unseen force sent undulating through the fabric of reality; standing between the doppelganger and the Determinist Prime was a man that Phendrana was altogether unfamiliar with, clad in simple spellcaster's robes of some foreign fashion with a shock of long dark hair and skin the color of pale gray stone, and with a start Phendrana recognized he wielded a similar tome even as its pages fluttered seemingly of their own accord and a silent spell was cast. Shards of ice sharpened to dagger-points materialized from nothing and pelted down upon Lamorak, but before Phendrana could so much as cry out a warning the _Imaskarcana_ that the Third Prince held threw itself open with a crackle of electricity and a distant rumble of thunder, wreathing the prince's body in protective flames that melted each icicle before they could reach their target.

_This is madness_, growled Hadrhune, his rage at the unprovoked attack on a Prince of Shade a palpable emotion that spiked adrenaline in Phendrana's veins. _We must put a stop to this at once._

_At last we agree on something,_ the mindmaster replied silently, and with Hadrhune's sadistic satisfaction permeating his consciousness Phendrana gritted his teeth and clenched his fist around the white-hot mithril band now scorching his ring finger.

The effect was instantaneous – psionic energy pulsed from the doppelganger's body and rolled over Lamorak's opponent in a wave. Had their adversary been a subpar spellcaster his mind would have been crushed in an instant – even a man proficient in the art of mind magic would have crumbled to his knees beneath the combined force of Phendrana's will and the ring that adorned his finger. But Voltain Darkydle was the self-appointed Lord Artificer of Deep Imaskar, and the ancient tome clutched resolutely in his hand gave him power the likes of which Phendrana had never faced before; the crushing psychic energy met some sort of resistance in the form of a pale pink orb – the manifestation of defenses the _Imaskarcana_ had conjured to shield its wielder? – surrounding Voltain's entire body and glanced harmlessly off its shining surface, powerful enough to get Voltain's attention and leave Phendrana with a splitting headache.

Voltain glanced over his shoulder, vague surprise at being interrupted mid-spell the only expression upon his face; if he was at all intimidated by Phendrana's show of force, he did very well to hide it. "And who might you be?" he wondered aloud, somehow intrigued by the doppelganger's presence, but his interest did not stay his hand as it thumbed expertly through the _Imaskarcana_'s pages.

"Phendrana!" Lamorak wailed, nearly doubled over with fatigue. "Get out of here while you still can, my friend! Alert the High Prince immediately!"

"There is no need for your friend to leave," Voltain observed in a cordial tone, his voice a harsh contrast to the unforgiving glint in his eyes, and settling upon a page he speared Phendrana to the ground with simply a glance; limbs twisting unnaturally of their own accord and excruciating agony wracking his body Phendrana collapsed, his voice an unearthly shriek that reverberated off the walls. With retribution in his eyes Lamorak forced himself into an upright position and raised one trembling hand to summon yet another spell from within the annals of limitless power bound into the book –

"And there is no need for that," added the Lord Artificer mildly, and snapping his burning gaze upon his other adversary he watched with grim satisfaction as the Third Prince swooned for the ground with a cry on his lips, the _Imaskarcana_ tumbling from his unfeeling fingertips.

Voltain glanced back and forth between the two writhing shades, his nose faintly wrinkled as if such a show of violence disgusted him but not inclined to show mercy; Phendrana felt as though his extremities were on fire, and his body would not obey when he begged it to rise. "I regret that it had to come to this, but it was the only possible outcome," said Voltain flatly, picking his way gingerly through the wreckage of Lamorak's room toward where the Sixth _Imaskarcana_ lay spine-up and battered but intact. "I ask that you do not stand against the wizard-kings of Imaskar again, for I will not hesitate to use force against you a second time if I must."

He knelt, stretching one hand out to claim the tome.

Dimly Phendrana realized that if they lost the book, they would lose Twelfth Prince Brennus for all time.

Before he could even attempt to protest, Phendrana sensed the unmistakable phenomenon of all mental and motor functions being wrested from his control for the first time in over a year; so shocked was he by such an unexpected development that he did not even consider resisting, instead surrendering almost gladly. It was highly unlikely that he would have been able to put up much protest in the end, for both he and Lamorak were still struggling feebly in the grips of Voltain Darkydle's spell.

The only one among them with a chance of winning could only do so if Phendrana let go – and so he let go.

His body changed, grew a little shorter and a fraction stockier, but physically the differences in their bodies were minimal – the greatest difference was in their minds, for the depths of Hadrhune's psyche was the darkest place Phendrana had ever glimpsed in his twelve centuries of life and playing a passenger to Hadrhune's rage sent a shiver coursing violently down his spine. When Hadrhune had completed his sudden takeover of Phendrana's body he rose from the floor without difficulty, stretching one hand out for his trusted darkstaff, but the artifact never materialized – it had been destroyed weeks ago, on the fateful night that a drow priestess had attempted the mass murder of the Princes of Shade with a single devastating daylight spell. For a moment Phendrana despaired – could Hadrhune pose a significant threat to their enemy without his treasured scepter? – but what the seneschal did next left him utterly speechless within his own subconscious.

"Prince Brennus, I implore you – if you can hear me, lend me your aid!" the shadow sorcerer bellowed, and miraculously the discarded spellbook responded to Hadrhune's urgency; with a flash of light that was almost blinding the Sixth _Imaskarcana_ vanished from beneath Voltain's outstretched hand and appeared again in the crook of Hadrhune's arm, its pages fluttering as though caught in a terrible gale. With malice in his amber eyes Hadrhune barked a string of complex words in an unfamiliar tongue and the pages grew still, falling open obediently to a precise passage and filling the entire room with an unearthly howl; though Lamorak seemed unaffected it was Voltain Darkydle who shrieked aloud and stumbled to his knees, clapping one hand over one ear but somehow maintaining the willpower to keep from dropping the Fifth _Imaskarcana_ from his grasp. As a stunned Phendrana watched through Hadrhune's eyes, the ear Voltain hadn't managed to cover began to bleed.

"This is your only warning," boomed Hadrhune's voice, magically magnified to be heard over the lingering effects of the spell he had cast, "leave this place at once and do not return. Never threaten the Princes of Shade again, or with the power of this book I will unmake you."

Though his upper lip curled back over his teeth in a snarl of rage and denial Voltain vanished without a trace, taking the Fifth _Imaskarcana_ with him but leaving the Sixth in Hadrhune's possession; simultaneously the dreadful howl ceased and Lamorak's body stilled, the tension easing out of his extremities as slowly the agony faded until it was no more.

Lamorak's blatant shock kept the seneschal rooted to the spot as he rose, weary but determined, and when at last his voice returned the prince spoke only one word.

"…Hadrhune?"


	8. Chapter Eight - Shadow Play

_"__How fares your journey?" _The High Prince's voice murmured in his ear, leaving the illusion that he was near at hand though in reality he was thousands of miles away. _"__I long to hear your tales of conquest, my son. I will admit, my patience is beginning to wear thin."_

Though Clariburnus was of course listening, he was not in a position to be idle and devote his undivided attention to his sovereign – at present he was slinking soundlessly through a narrow and winding corridor, his right hand trailing along the stone an arm's length away and his ears perked for even the quietest sound. He and the small scouting party that Escanor had ordered to follow him – his eldest brother was the very soul of caution – had been tracking the movements of what they believed to be a drow patrol making their rounds, and Clariburnus was determined to identify them. There was a possibility that the drow's movements were a pattern, one that would make slipping undetected through the tunnels a simple affair, and at best he could use a straggler to secure a route for a reconnaissance group or two to infiltrate Menzoberranzan without the city's border guards marking their passing. "Soon, Most High," the Fifth Prince promised with confidence, his voice so soft that it could have been mistaken for a breath of wind. "The drow are vigilant, but they will make a mistake - when they do, we will be quick to exploit it. The stealthiest of our numbers will be sneaking into the city in a day or two and bringing back reports – we will bring the war to them within the week."

"I appreciate your attentiveness, but do not tarry long. The Army of Shade is grand, and mighty. It is meant for conquering kingdoms, not skulking through lightless tunnels and fighting in the occasional skirmish. They will grow restless if you do not command them, and a restless army is difficult to bring to heel – especially so far from home."

Clariburnus silently conceded the point. No one would dare argue with a Prince of Shade within the boundaries of Thultanthar, where their seat of power was uncontested and their indomitable sovereign was but a word away – here, in such close quarters with such large numbers all molded for war and destruction, it was dangerous to remain idle for too long. Sensing the approach of one of his siblings Clariburnus glanced over his shoulder to find Rapha watching him with keen understanding, his expression suggesting he had heard every word, and truth be told Clariburnus was far more concerned with his capricious younger brother giving away their position in a fit of impatience than the entire army doing the same. "I will do everything within my power to speed the invasion plans along," he vowed. "You have my word – I will not fail in this."

_"__I have every confidence,"_ the High Prince responded, and the band of shadow adorning Clariburnus's wrist faded into a barely-visible vapor, indicating that the connection between them had been terminated. He turned then to Rapha with a raised eyebrow, who surprised him by keeping his observations brief and concise.

The Tenth Prince's fingers flashed through a series of intricate hand gestures; when he had forged his superficial companionship with Lim several months previous the drow-shade had taught him the dark elf sign language, which he had then helped Clariburnus learn for the sole purpose of keeping their conversations as private as possible in their unfamiliar and unforgiving surroundings. _The patrol has slowed - I believe they may be nearing a hidden entrance into the city. I have two spies marking their position. We must be quick._

Clariburnus nodded once – he understood the detailed finger-talk well enough but preferred not to use it if he didn't have to – and indicated that Rapha should lead the way; the Tenth Prince turned back the way he had come and set off, quickly enough that they had no fear of losing their quarry but carefully enough that his footfalls made no sound upon the stone. Clariburnus couldn't help being mildly impressed by his younger brother's caution, for patience and care were traits that Rapha didn't inherently possess, and followed in his wake with one hand upon the dagger sheathed at his hip; in these narrow tunnels with only a sparse natural light source to see by, drawing his glaive to attack would likely prove to be just as dangerous to his allies as it was to his enemies.

There were two scouts skulking in well-concealed bends of the natural corridor protecting the spies as the two princes approached; Clariburnus nodded at both of them in greeting before slinking after his brother, who had already spotted their spies and crouched down beside them by way of greeting. One of the spies was Razum, Clariburnus's favored archer, who was fitting a bolt into a light crossbow upon his lap – the other was Barick, one of Rapha's hexblades who specialized in illusion magic. As the drow sign language was foreign to them Clariburnus looked to Rapha, ready to translate his brothers' suggestions as best he was able.

_Razum has counted the patrol at fifteen, so the drow outnumber us more than two to one._ Rapha smirked at Clariburnus as he relayed this information, as though having the odds stacked against them didn't concern him in the slightest. _As they are nearing their destination I recommend we observe them from here for a few minutes longer to see if they are able to lead us to a secret entrance into the city… whether they do or not, we should kill them quickly._

Clariburnus mulled this over, fully aware that the eyes of the scouts and spies who had accompanied them were watching him expectantly – they would listen to Rapha, of course, but there was no question who was truly in charge here. He wasn't particularly fond of the idea of allowing the drow to outdistance them, for it was mere speculation that they were nearing someplace of great importance and they had no real evidence to support this theory, but Escanor was adamant that they make every effort to infiltrate Menzoberranzan prior to the invasion and Clariburnus hadn't the authority to overthrow his brother's orders on the matter. If there was even the smallest chance that the drow could be leading them to some concealed secret entrance, it was their duty to try and secure it through any means available to them. He pointed first to the elongated cavern the drow were milling through, then to himself, and then to Rapha, a clear indication that he and his brother would lead the charge; he then pointed simultaneously to Razum and Barick but held up a hand palm-first in their direction, indicating that they should stay put and attack from a distance if the opportunity arose. Finally he signaled the two scouts to return to their posts and keep watch, ensuring that they were not attacked from behind while they attended to their dark business. Lastly he held up two fingers for Rapha, Razum, and Barick to see – two minutes, he was saying. Two minutes of further observation, and then they would strike the first blow in the war against Menzoberranzan.

For Clariburnus, those two minutes of silent observation were agonizing. He was loyal to Escanor at every turn and loved and respected his eldest brother's diplomatic leadership, but given the opportunity he would have approached the situation differently – much the same way as their sovereign would, truth be told. Every bone in his body yearned to engage their enemies, to rip the life from their bodies and repay the dark elves back tenfold for the devastation they had wrecked upon Thultanthar, but he repeated Escanor's orders quietly to himself and kept quite still. _Soon_, he told himself. Two minutes meant nothing. In two minutes, he would bathe in the blood of his enemies. He would have waited far longer to do so.

Rapha, counting the seconds impatiently in his mind, signaled that the moment was upon them a little sooner than Clariburnus had expected; one look at the anticipation etched on the Tenth Prince's face was all the explanation Clariburnus needed. There was little doubt that his younger brother was looking forward to this skirmish perhaps just as much. Razum lifted his crossbow and sighted down the shaft, nodding once to Clariburnus to indicate that he was prepared to fire; Barick held an iron wand aloft and briefly flicked his gaze in Rapha's direction, a sure sign that his first spell would find its mark. With ornate daggers in hand, the two Princes of Shade leapt nimbly out of concealment and charged, their feet silent upon the stone but their hearts singing in their chests.

The three unfortunate dark elves that formed the rear guard of the scouting column died without a sound.

Fleeter of foot than his older brother, Rapha fell upon their appointed enemies first; with the protective veil of shadows enshrouding his body he was all but invisible in the perpetual blackness that characterized the Underdark's tunnels, and with a single knife-thrust he severed the first drow's spinal cord and eased his body soundlessly to the ground where it twitched spasmodically a few times before growing still. Clariburnus chose to err on the side of extreme caution and shadow-walk the distance to their targets, appearing between them barely half a second after Rapha's deadly first strike had fallen; with a graceful sweep of his right arm he slashed the throat of the drow scout on his right as simultaneously his left hand darted out, seized the other by the throat, and crushed his windpipe with a great surging of strength that most normal men could never hope to muster. While Clariburnus dropped both bodies to the floor Rapha was already moving, and as the next nearest black elf turned back to investigate the source of the disturbance an expertly-fired crossbow bolt lanced cleanly over Clariburnus's shoulder and pierced the wary drow squarely between the eyes, ending his life before he had the chance to alert his comrades.

Barick held his wand aloft then and launched a silent spell – at least Rapha, still pressing the advantage at the head of their little band of spies, assumed he had, for in the next instant the remaining drow were drawing weapons and shouting frantically to one another in their strange tongue. The Tenth Prince almost paused his advance, his eyes warily sweeping the darkest portions of the subterranean cavern for some new threat, but as the drow continued to shriek in horror and pierce the empty air with their weapons it became clear to him what Barick had done – with his illusion magic he had summoned the likeness of some creature to distract the drow that hadn't died in the initial onslaught, giving Rapha and Clariburnus even more time to pick them off one by one without being noticed.

In Rapha's moment of hesitation he was surpassed by Clariburnus, whose determined steps had hardly slowed in the bedlam brought on by Barick's spell; flipping his dagger over and gripping it stabbing-style he plunged its glittering tip precisely through the soft spot at the base of one drow's skull, and yanking it free he reversed his grip yet again and slashed yet another of their adversaries diagonally the length of his chest from sternum to kidney, kicking the flailing body away from him as the wretched drow's innards spilled out behind him. Rapha managed to draw level with him then and they completed their advance together, dispatching the rest of the drow from behind with cruel blows of their daggers that left no survivors to alert the nearby city of Menzoberranzan that the Princes of Shade had come to exact their merciless, malicious revenge.

Wiping his dagger meticulously clean on the jerkin of one of the butchered drow, Clariburnus smiled to himself and vowed to keep it that way for as long as possible.

"Two of the black elves killed one another in a fit of panic," Rapha pointed out as he and Clariburnus retreated to the rear of the cavern where the rear guard had joined Barick and Razum. "By the grace of Shar, Barick, what heinous vision did you conjure?"

"A hook horror," Barick admitted, drawing himself up proudly. "Denizens of the Underdark that have been known to prey on careless drow patrols that wander too far away from the safety of their wretched city. I thought it a fitting illusion, one that our enemies would be sure to fall for."

"It was inspired," Clariburnus congratulated, clapping the mage companionably at the shoulder before cutting his bemused gaze to his younger brother and adding slyly, "I claimed seven in the skirmish, brother – taking into account the two who slew themselves as a result of Barick's clever illusion and the one Razum shot down, only five died by your hand. The day is mine!"

Rapha glared back darkly, clearly displeased at the prospect of claiming less kills than his older brother, but in the next instant he was shrugging in dismissal and his characteristic cocky confidence had crept back into his expression. "You may have bested me this time, but there are thousands of drow yet to be slaughtered – I have no doubts that those who die by my hand will far outnumber your victims, in the end."

"A fact I look forward to disproving to you," Clariburnus joked with a sneer of utmost superiority, and as Rapha rolled his eyes the Fifth Prince turned to their small number and finished, "Barick, Razum – follow this corridor and see where it leads, but for no longer than half an hour. It simply won't do for you to stray any further from the bulk of our forces in such unfamiliar territory, but we cannot afford not to explore this avenue in the chance that it leads to a secret entrance to the city. The rest of us will return to the encampment – Escanor will want our report right away, and I am eager to plan our next move against the drow. Return as soon as you have determined whether this route is one we might use for future infiltrations."

"At your command, Prince," Razum acknowledged obediently, and with a silent signal to Barick he led the way down the tunnel before turning a corner and vanishing into the infinite darkness of yet another lightless corridor.

"Come," Clariburnus ordered the others, beckoning for them to follow as he led them back the way they had come. "We may have struck the first blows, but there is much yet to do."

"The patrol is late," said Andzrel Baenre to Gromph, trying and failing not to sound intimidated by the simple prospect of addressing the Archmage of Menzoberranzan. Though not without his own lofty accolades – commander of the Army of the Black Spider foremost among these – Andzrel knew well enough where he ranked in the hierarchy of the powerful House Baenre, and that was somewhere far below Gromph's station. Gromph Baenre was Matron Mother Quenthel's older brother and master of the arcane tower of Sorcere; he was the most gifted mage in all Menzoberranzan, and indisputably one of the most venerable dark elves in all the Underdark. Those who did not quake in Gromph's presence were fools, in Andzrel's opinion.

For a while, Gromph said nothing; he had adjourned to the balcony of his study within the grand tower of Sorcere when Andzrel had admitted himself and was now gazing thoughtfully down upon Qu'ellarz'orl, whereupon were built the eight grandest compounds of the ruling families of Menzoberranzan. Their own house was the oldest and easily the most breathtaking of these structures, a sprawling collection of spectacular edifices outlined in subtle yet beautiful flames of violet faerie fire; it was a majestic sight to behold and an apt reflection of the elite drow family that inhabited it, a collection of the most talented, successful, and influential individuals of their fine race.

None of those advantages had been enough to preserve Quartana Baenre against the wrath of the Princes of Thultanthar, Gromph reminded himself bitterly.

In truth, Gromph had never much cared for Quartana – his niece, the second-eldest daughter of his sister Quenthel, upon whose brow currently rested the lofty crown of Matron Mother of First House Baenre – but he had recognized how valuable her gifts had been and understood well what a powerful presence his house had lost when her life had been taken. Quartana had been a Seer, a chosen of Lolth with the coveted ability to glimpse fragments of the future as told by the Spider Queen, and at the goddess's prompting Quartana had assembled a small task force of dark elves to infiltrate Thultanthar and strike the first fatal blows in a war that Lolth had foretold was destined to take place. He had learned in the wake of those failed assassination attempts that the goddess Shar had chosen her own champion and bestowed upon him the same treasured Sight that Quartana had once enjoyed, and that through a series of prophetic dreams Shar's emissary had thwarted the chosen children of Lolth at every turn – indeed, the Sight was so strong with Shar's damned defender that through his divinations all of the dark elves who had been foolish enough to set foot within the City of Shade had been brutally slaughtered.

Well, all but one, Gromph corrected himself a little smugly.

His sister Quenthel and every single one of her attending priestesses had clambered for the swift and merciless execution of Mourntrin Auvryndar, the single surviving drow who had snuck into Thultanthar and lived to tell the grisly tale, but Gromph had stood against them at every turn. In most circumstances he would not have bothered – he understood Quenthel's desire to eliminate him, of course, for he had failed in his duty and was thus hardly worthy to continue serving such powerful masters! – but there was no denying that the information he had managed to bring back with him was invaluable. He had gotten close enough to the Princes of Shade to report back a great many of their talents, he had scraped together a decent description of the layout of their shrouded city, and perhaps most importantly he had brought with him the knowledge that Lim Tal'eyve was very much alive. This in itself was priceless knowledge and with it Mourn had bought his own preservation, but there was no telling for just how long; Gromph had his suspicions that Mourn had ties to the Jaezred Chaulssin, an ancient order of all male drow renegades whose dearest ambition was the eradication of the Spider Queen and the overthrow of each and every drow priestess who served her. He could guarantee Mourn's safety for as long as his musings remained just that, but if he ever gleaned that there was any truth to such rumors… well, suffice it to say that the assassin's end would be long, torturous, and unthinkingly barbaric. Quenthel had made it something of her life's mission to stamp out any remaining allies and supporters of the Jaezred Chaulssin, and Mourn would be no exception no matter how valuable his information might seem.

How he had known that the whole host of Thultanthar's wrathful army was swarming the lightless caverns of the Underdark seeking their ruler's vengeance Gromph could only guess, but there was no denying that without Mourn's very vital advance warning the city of Menzoberranzan would be at an insurmountable disadvantage now. Not that Quenthel hadn't taken some convincing – she was proud and obstinate, and had steadfastly refused to believe that any army could pose a threat to the might of House Baenre – but Mourn had never wavered in his testimony and Gromph had adamantly lent the assassin his support in the matter. If Mourn was right, it could mean the preservation of their entire city – and if he was wrong they would kill him, and hardly feel put out by his loss. When his stubborn sister had at last agreed to the extra precautionary measures Gromph had suggested he had placed Andzrel in control of assembling and commanding each patrol personally, and with strict instructions that he should report to Sorcere at once if something seemed amiss. This was the first patrol that hadn't returned on time since Mourn had first warned them of Thultanthar's intent to march, and Gromph knew that it couldn't possibly be a coincidence – the Princes of Shade were among them.

"How late?" Gromph queried at last, for if he went running to Quenthel in a flurry of panic simply because a patrol was running five minutes behind schedule she would likely flay him alive.

Andzrel glanced past where his impervious uncle stood and fixed his eyes upon the subtle crimson glow of Narbondel, the great timepiece of Menzoberranzan that imparted the lateness of the hour by virtue of a thermal signature traveling the length of the spire from base to tip. "It is half an hour by my estimate, Archmage."

After a great deal of silent consideration, during which Andzrel shifted anxiously from foot to foot, Gromph turned away from the balcony and strode back into his study with purpose in his eyes. "And where is Mourn? In the clutches of my tyrannical sister, no doubt."

Andzrel snapped to attention, pleased to be of service – but then, he was a man of action, Gromph knew. "He is safe, Archmage. Matron Mother Quenthel permitted him to return to his regular duties with Bregan D'aerthe."

"You have remained in contact with him?" The mercenary clan Bregan D'aerthe was shrouded in perpetual mystery, and despite the fact that Gromph's younger brother Jarlaxle had founded the organization and commanded it from afar Gromph himself knew very little of the group's power structure or its inner workings.

"Yes, Archmage. I am acquainted with a few of their members. They are under the strictest orders to ensure he remains well guarded and unharmed at all times."

Gromph was swiftly donning his personal effects, amulets and rings and other enchanted trinkets he supposed he might need to utilize sooner rather than later. "Bring him to me. If the Princes of Shade are at our doorstep, they will surely want his head on a platter – as our only informant, his safety is now more imperative than ever. Quenthel will torture him, the Shades will murder him, and I will entrust his well-being to none other. The only way I can be certain he lives is by keeping him at my side."

Andzrel nodded once, a display of complete and utter compliance. "I will send for him at once."

"No, nephew," Gromph corrected in a steely tone, "I will trust no one else with this errand. Go yourself, and be quick. Speak to no one, and do not tarry in the streets. Bring him directly back here, and then return to your duties at the Baenre compound. When Quenthel gives word to mobilize our armies she will leave that responsibility to you – if you are not present, she will grow suspicious."

Andzrel snapped to attention, his assumed authority emboldening him. "It shall be done."

"The tunnel leads to a hidden entrance into the city," Razum confirmed upon his return, and to Clariburnus his words were like the sweetest music. "It widens out into an outer garden of giant phosphorous mushrooms and appears to circle around a subterranean lake, then leads into the impoverished district where the less fortunate reside."

Though his mind was already made up the Fifth Prince looked to Escanor, who appeared to be weighing this favorable development seriously but whose eyes were electric with anticipation. Having been removed from every skirmish up to this point, Clariburnus assumed that his eldest brother was all but desperate to engage their enemies in combat at last, but as the High Prince's appointed leader he was bound to consider all of their options carefully before mobilizing the army to move. His answer was predictably diplomatic despite his intense interest. "Our fight is not with the dark elves' foul slaves or their lower class. How much ground will our soldiers need to cover to bring the fight to the nobles?"

Razum's expression grew grim. "Maps of the city indicate it is some five to eight miles across – these dimensions are questionable at best, for few historians outside of the drow's own scholars have ever been permitted to inspect Menzoberranzan closely enough. Qu'ellarz'orl, where the eight ruling houses reside, is located along the northeastern-most corner of the city – our point of entry is to the south."

"Circumstances do not favor us," Yder pointed out, earning a scowl from both Rapha and Clariburnus. "We would be better served waiting for a clear advantage, Escanor."

Rapha's eyes were scouring his surly-faced hexblades, some of whom were brandishing weapons and gnashing their teeth menacingly and some of whom had the beginnings of devastating spells crackling upon their fingertips, when he admitted, "We have waited long enough for this opportunity, I think."

Seeing the tormented indecision playing across his eldest brother's face, Clariburnus took matters into his own hands and formulated a course of action he hoped might appease all parties. Turning to the historians, learned arcanists who had once answered directly to Twelfth Prince Brennus, he asked, "Which of the eight ruling houses is lowest in the chain of command?"

The only shade among them, a female with a willowy frame and a shock of silvery hair that glimmered beneath the murk swaddling her form, looked up at once from the map around which the historians were congregated. "House Do'Urden," she told him informatively, pleased to have something valuable to offer. "Led by Matron Mother Darthiir Do'Urden."

Clariburnus passed between his brothers and drew right up to the table upon which their most accurate map of Menzoberranzan lay, gesturing for the female shade to join him. "And what can you tell me of House Do'Urden?"

"It was destroyed more than a thousand years ago in a bout of inter-house warfare, a common occurrence among these foul creatures," she explained. "When Quenthel Baenre seized the seat of power within the First House she ordered its reconstruction, for reasons we have yet to determine. The name Do'Urden was bestowed upon a select handful of drow from other reputable houses, all personally chosen to represent the new house by Quenthel Baenre – Darthiir Do'Urden, from what I understand, was once an elf from the surface world but was captured and bent to the will of the drow before being rewarded the title of Matron Mother. The Do'Urden family is young yet, and in my opinion a good target to receive the war's first devastating blows, Prince."

Clariburnus nodded along thoughtfully, pleased by her unbiased assessment. "And if we chose to target them, what manner of resistance should we suspect them to muster against us?"

A conspiratorial grin lit the arcanist's face at this. "Four high priestesses, eight lesser priestesses, two wizards, and seven warriors form the nobility of House Do'Urden. Apart from that they boast three hundred and fifty soldiers within their compound and a comparable amount of slaves – kobolds and the like, lesser creatures of little threat to the host of Shade. Theirs is a force that, in my humble opinion, we could best easily, Prince."

Turning back to face his three brothers with a smug grin Clariburnus finished simply, "And there you have it."

Escanor was nodding along sagely as though already in agreement, and though the glint of excitement still gleamed in his copper eyes he continued to approach the situation with caution – mere formalities, Clariburnus knew. "Two wizards, seven seasoned warriors, and a force estimated at seven hundred foot soldiers is hardly a concern to me. Yder – the twelve priestesses within their household does not bode well. How are you and your divine champions of Shar prepared to combat them? If we can eliminate them quickly, the rest of their forces will pose little threat to us."

Yder appeared opposed but resigned; knowing that in this argument he was surely among the minority, he resolved to follow his eldest brother's lead. "In this, I will take no chances," he assured Escanor. "If you are willing to grant me a little time to commune with Rivalen, I will determine how best to proceed against the Do'Urden priestesses. He will surely present a favorable solution."

"Do so," Escanor told the Sixth Prince briskly, and with an agreeable nod Yder quietly excused himself from their war council; Escanor addressed Rapha next. "The two wizards and seven veteran fighters will be your primary responsibility – take your hexblades and isolate them from the larger force. It should not be difficult – as nobles of the house, they will make defending the priestesses their highest priority. You will likely find them not far from the private chapel to Lolth that the Do'Urdens surely house within the compound, so start there. When you have eliminated them, return to the courtyard and aid us against the soldiers and slaves. Without their wizards to oppose you, your magic will decimate their army."

Rapha could not have appeared more pleased with his assignment. "It will be done," he vowed, and signaling to his hexblades he retreated from the council chamber to prepare.

Clariburnus crossed his arms and tossed a playful wink Escanor's way. "Priestesses for Yder and a handful of hardened nobles for Rapha… It seems I will find little enjoyment this day."

"Will you not enjoy slaughtering dark elves by the dozens?" asked Escanor, quirking an eyebrow with good humor, and the Fifth Prince chuckled beneath his breath.

"I will relish the cries of every drow that dies by my hand," Clariburnus promised, "but simple soldiers and slaves can hardly be considered worthy adversaries, wouldn't you agree?"

Escanor's deathly serious reply sent a thrill of anticipation coursing down Clariburnus' spine. "Wholeheartedly. But rest assured, brother – there will be no lack of worthy adversaries for you as we fight our way along Qu'ellarz'orl. We will paint the stone steps leading to the fabled House Baenre red with the blood of the lesser drow who are foolish enough to stand against us, and there you will at last engage enemies of such renown that the bards of Thultanthar will spin tales of your astounding victories for centuries to come!"

Aveil was roused from a rare state of deep slumber by a gentle but insistent hand shaking her by the shoulder and a troubled voice calling her name. Blinking blearily, her eyes adjusting slowly to the state of near-darkness of her private quarters, the Sceptrana of Thultanthar squinted questioningly into the anxious face of Danyell, the young Shadovar girl whom Aglarel had personally appointed to serve as her primary lady-in-waiting. The girl's dark eyes were wide within her gaunt face, and the thick sheet of pale silver hair falling into her eyes only enhanced her distinctly disheveled look.

"Forgive me, milady," murmured Danyell the moment Aveil's eyes were open. "It seems the situation is urgent, else I would not have dared to wake you."

It was then that Aveil perceived movement over Danyell's shoulder, and her eyes darted to take in the shadow-swathed figure waiting restlessly at the foot of the bed; propping herself up on her elbows Aveil shook her hair back from her face, wondering aloud groggily, "Aglarel?" She realized a few moments too late that the eyes gazing back at her were not the backlit moonstone with which she was so familiar, but a cool silver – similarly the build was less stocky and more willowy, and as comprehension dawned in full Second Prince Rivalen moved mercifully closer for her benefit.

"Pardon my inexcusably late intrusion," Rivalen bade her politely, "but I come bearing a most pressing request."

Aveil sat straighter and rubbed stubbornly at her tired eyes, something like dread settling in the pit of her stomach at these words. As she swung her legs to the side and her feet touched the floor she took in his appearance – despite the lateness of the hour Rivalen was fully arrayed in his High Priest garb, robes that rippled with divine magic and the Book of Shar tucked almost possessively beneath his right arm. The sight made her instantly apprehensive, for she knew even in the limited time they had spent together that he only bore the Book of Shar on one of two occasions – to bestow Shar's highest blessings upon the members of the Tanthul family, or to wage holy war against individuals who were particularly devout followers of a rival deity. At such a dreadfully late hour, Aveil could think of no reason why he would wake her for anything less than the latter. "What has happened?"

Rivalen opened his mouth to reply but his eyes made a telling pass of her body from head to toe. "Perhaps you would prefer to dress yourself for battle, Sceptrana, and I will tell you all that I know while you do so."

She put her back to him at once and slipped behind a changing screen, upon which Danyell had mercifully hung her Senior Arcanist's robes; the shift she wore to bed was light and sheer and far too revealing to be worn in the presence of a Prince of Shade, and her cheeks burned with embarrassment as she shrugged out of the garment and wondered how much Rivalen had seen. As she hastily tugged on her undergarments she heard the Second Prince address her from the other side of the changing screen: "My shadow bond to Yder awakened me not long ago. It seems the Army of Shade is preparing to lay waste to House Do'Urden, the lesser of the eight ruling houses of Menzoberranzan. Yder believes that he and his divine champions of Shar possess the ability to immobilize the Do'Urden priestesses of Lolth, but the first blow in any war is always a critical one and in this matter I have strongly advised him to take no chances. He has requested my aid, and now I am requesting yours, if you are willing."

Aveil tugged the robes on over her head, straightening them as Danyell ran a brush through the Sceptrana's silky black hair. "Me?" she echoed incredulously. "Begging your pardon, Prince, but my bond to Mystra is not one of divine nature – it is strictly arcane. The priestesses of Lolth harness divine magic, as do the divine champions of Shar, if memory serves – what use could I possibly be to you?"

"Your observations are correct," Rivalen assured her, "but I do not mean to utilize your talents in a divine capacity. Only the wizards of the drow school of Sorcere are at all versed in the ways of the arcane, and House Do'Urden is sorely lacking in that regard – Rapha and his hexblades will make short work of them, but afterward they have been instructed to join Clariburnus and the infantry in battling back the drow soldiers. It is my hope that when the wizards have been eliminated, the priestesses will be ill equipped to withstand any magical attacks that may be arcane in nature – certainly they will hardly expect to be assailed by the Dark Chosen of Mystra."

Donning the last of her magical effects Aveil rounded the changing screen to face him; at her feet Danyell knelt obediently, outfitting the Sceptrana with her high black boots. "I am your trump card," she pointed out bluntly, and Rivalen answered her straightforward inquiry with a smile.

"This is war, Sceptrana," he replied deviously. "We must use every advantage at our disposal in order to win."

Aveil nodded along in agreement – his judgment was undeniably sound. "Tell me how I can assist you."

"Meet me at the church," Rivalen told her, even as his body was dissolving into thousands of tiny black shadow particles, and turning on her heel Aveil followed his lead and shadow-walked out of her private chamber for a brief sojourn through the Plane of Shadow. When she regained her corporeal form she was standing just inside the ornate chapel doors, and as she watched Rivalen strode elegantly up the aisle toward the elaborate altar at the head of the congregation; with a wave of one hand and a soft-spoken "Good evening, Divine Lady," Rivalen completed his approach, and before Aveil's disbelieving eyes the violet candles arranged in candelabras all around them simultaneously guttered to life.

After a moment's further contemplation Aveil hesitantly started up the aisle toward him, all too aware that this was the first time she had dared cross the threshold into the High Church of Shar. "I don't understand," she continued. "How can we aid them from here? We are thousands of miles from Menzoberranzan. Even the journey there via the Plane of Shadow would take hours, and the strain such a grueling excursion would put on our bodies would leave us in no condition to fight."

She reached the altar, where Rivalen was grinding a black pearl the size of a pomegranate into a glittering powder using a mortar and pestle. "Right again," he congratulated her. "That is why we will be aiding Yder and his divine champions from right here."

From a small inner pocket of his priest's robes he extracted a miniature glass vial filled with diamond dust; with a practiced eye he extracted a pinch from the vial between his thumb and forefinger and cast it into the bowl with the black pearl powder. Speaking a short incantation in the mesmerizing language of the Netherese he conjured a bead of silver flame upon the tip of his index finger, and the moment he flicked this in the bowl it reduced the contents to shimmering flakes of silver-black ash. Lifting the bowl from the altar with a satisfied expression Rivalen turned to face her; the heat from the still-smoldering bowl washed over Aveil's cheeks.

"You and I will be journeying to the Astral Sea to do battle with the priestesses of Lolth," he explained. "When I have finished making the preparations our souls will be separated from our bodies and relocated near House Do'Urden, where we will join the divine champions of Shar in their business. Have you any experience with the Astral Sea, Sceptrana?"

"No," Aveil admitted, suddenly apprehensive.

"Worry not," Rivalen told her somewhat reassuringly, "for I have extensive experience with interplanar travel and am quite familiar with the Astral Sea. Stay close to me when we travel, and do not allow yourself to be led astray. When we reach our destination, we will exist for a time in two planes – thanks to my spell our souls will still exist entirely within the Astral Sea, but we will be doing battle upon the Material Plane. You must be ever cautious, for our souls can still be harmed by the dark elves' magic; if you sense your spirit-self becoming fatigued, you must return here immediately and reunite with your body in order to recover. If your soul is separated from your corporeal form for too long, or takes too much damage, it may become impossible to reunite them again – if this happens, your soul will eventually shrivel and vanish and your body will become a hollow shell."

"Yes, no need to worry," Aveil replied, her tone dripping with sarcasm, and clapping her companionably upon the shoulder in response Rivalen held the bowl over her head and gave it a shake. A handful of darkly glimmering stardust sprinkled down on her – Aveil shuddered involuntarily, feeling suddenly as though she had been doused with cold water – and then her perspective shifted as without warning she found herself gazing upon her own motionless body. With a yelp of fear she put a hand up to her face, highly disconcerted when she felt absolutely nothing, but then Rivalen shook some of the silver-black flakes over himself as well and she watched with morbid fascination as a pearlescent likeness of the Second Prince peeled away and moved toward her. He extended one ghostly hand in her direction in a placating manner, and the feel of his too-cool fingertips grazing her cheek was somehow calming.

"You will adjust quickly." Rivalen's voice was thick with confidence but also somehow muted and echoing, as though he was speaking to her from some point very far away as opposed to right beside her. "Are you ready?"

The Second Prince lifted one hand and waved it casually, and a shower of twinkling ebony shards spiraled from his palm into the air; they twisted into the size and shape of a doorway, and with a flash there appeared a shining white portal, wordlessly beckoning them into the beyond. Aveil glanced back just long enough to glimpse their motionless forms standing glassy-eyed and oblivious next to the altar to Shar, and then she followed Rivalen into the void.

No one in the Lower District raised a sword against the overwhelming numbers of shades and Shadovar as they marched with silent purpose up the run-down central avenue toward Qu'ellarz'orl – quite the contrary they scattered like leaves in a gale, sprinting down alleyways and tripping into their hovels in the hopes that their walls would save them. None of them were foolish enough to stand before such an overwhelming force, for in their eyes was the cool confidence of seasoned warlords and in their movements was the grace and strength of practiced killers. There wasn't a man within the Army of Shade who had not fought dozens of battles in the name of Thultanthar, and won.

Standing at the head of the impressive host was the most formidable-looking figure of all, a brute of a shade with cunning silver eyes, polished black glass armor reflecting the macabre hues of fuchsia and chartreuse cast in the glow of faerie fire, and a magnificent glaive whose razor edge was inlaid with shards of shattered diamond. Upon his brow he wore a shining black crown tipped with trilliant-cut sapphires, and a violet cape emblazoned with the Tanthul family insignia rippled down his shoulders to his ankles. All who looked upon his face, half-crazed with anticipation and lust for battle, fled from his path in terror, for here was Fifth Prince Clariburnus Tanthul, reverently called the Black Conqueror by the army he so proudly commanded. Directly to his right and one step behind came a slightly taller shade with features just as regal, greatsword sheathed across his back in a jeweled scabbard, crown of darkly shimmering black glass set with topaz set upon his brow just above eyes flat with focused determination – he was First Prince Escanor Tanthul, eldest son of the fabled Lord Shadow with battle prowess nearly akin to the Black Conqueror's.

Their forces flowed through the bazaar like a coursing river rushes across smooth stones, undeterred by the kiosks lining the avenues and the merchants shrieking and diving out of their way; the host hardly slowed and spared hardly a glance for those around them as the two Princes of Shade cut a swath past Narbondel, the enchanted glimmering timepiece that served as the center of Menzoberranzan, and determinedly up the wide granite staircase to the carved stone shelf where the eight ruling houses of the dark elf city were arrayed in black iron gates and ebony buttresses and gently-undulating faerie fire. The house nearest the staircase, smallest in scale and naturally the least imposing, boasted a host of Underdark fodder at the ready to fight and die for their slavers' honor, and further behind them the warriors of House Do'Urden whose singular mission was to prevent the Army of Shade from breaching the compound at all costs.

Practiced eyes sweeping keenly over the amassed forces of House Do'Urden, Clariburnus knew beyond the shadow of any doubt that the drow's best efforts would hardly slow the Army of Shade.

At the head of the mighty company of drow warriors and Underdark slaves stood Tiago Do'Urden, formerly of House Baenre but appointed to serve as the weapon master when the eighth house was reinstated upon the ruling council; a particularly diminutive male with a wiry frame, he would hardly have reached the Fifth Prince's sternum were they standing directly before one another, and the longsword clutched tightly in his right hand seemed laughably insignificant when compared to the ornate glaive still sheathed comfortably along Clariburnus's back. Nevertheless he faced the Princes of Shade with dignity and his voice did not tremble when he addressed them. "Denizens of Shadow, you stand at the gates of the esteemed Eighth House Do'Urden! On behalf of my illustrious Matron Mother Darthiir Do'Urden, I cannot allow you to take one step closer to the compound. You must face the host of House Do'Urden should you wish to proceed, and you will find us formidable foes indeed – should you wish to turn back now and forego your shameful conquest, you will have only this opportunity. Once we cross blades, there will be no mercy for you."

Remarkably Clariburnus threw his head back and laughed – the oddly jubilant sound of it echoed off the sightless cavern ceiling above, amplifying the sound tenfold and sending a shudder of real fear coursing through the ranks of the Do'Urden army. When his bout of mirth resided the Fifth Prince removed his ornate crown and passed it to his squire, and at his side Escanor did the same.

"Our shameful conquest?" echoed the Fifth Prince incredulously, and clamping one hand down upon the shaft of his glaive he drew the magnificent weapon and brought it to bear, its deadly edge gleaming hungrily in the violet light cast from the faerie fires lining the Do'Urden compound. "This conquest is justified, and our actions here will bring glory to Dark Lady Shar – but these words are beyond someone of your paltry station, so I will waste no more of them on you. Prepare to defend yourself, nameless drow of No-House-Worth-Mentioning. I cannot promise your death will be painless, but I have greater heads to cleave than yours so I can promise it will at least be quick."

Predictably the drow weapon master rose quickly to the slight, and with rage in his eyes he shrieked a cry for the host of House Do'Urden to attack; hefting his longsword he charged forward to meet Clariburnus in battle, and with a faint smirk curling his lips the Fifth Prince met the challenge eagerly. Theirs were the first weapons to clash, but the resounding din that followed that initial stroke was enough to leave ears ringing and fingers tingling tight around hilts of weapons.

The Army of Shade had successfully decimated fully a quarter of the Do'Urden warriors within the opening two minutes of the battle when a much smaller second contingent rushed in from behind the unsuspecting drow masses; arrayed in black glass armor with a sorcerer's cape clasped over one arm, the ovular turquoise stones tipping his black crown flashing purple-black in the light of the faerie fire and the beginnings of a deadly fireball singeing his fingertips, Tenth Prince Rapha led his seasoned hexblades through the gate and into the courtyard where the Do'Urden host was already scattered and almost leaderless.

"Spells at the ready!" Rapha cried, holding his arm aloft as the fireball swelled in size and undulated most chaotically in the palm of his hand. "Loose at my command!" And with a roar he launched the spell into the rear of the dark elf column, where no shade or Shadovar was in danger of being caught in the blast.

Fully four dozen unfortunate drow were reduced to cinders in the resultant blast, and dozens more met a similar fate in the next instant as the Tenth Prince's faithful hexblades rained down a second wave of deadly evocation spells, effectively clearing a pathway from the courtyard to the entryway of the Do'Urden compound.

"Go now!" Rapha bellowed, and while the drow army struggled to regroup they were powerless to stop Sixth Prince Yder and his company of Divine Champions of Shar from simply striding up the short staircase leading to the entrance and blasting the ornate double doors open to admit themselves.

Fortunately they cleared the doors with all haste, for in the next moment one of the drow wizards launched a devastating lightning bolt after them with deadly accuracy; it streaked across the battlefield, tendrils of white-hot electricity making the fine hairs on every man's arms stand on end, before impacting the archway above the doors with such force that the ornately-carved structure was shattered into pieces, thus entombing all those still within the Do'Urden compound and effectively separating Yder and his small group of Divine Champions from the larger forces of Shade.

"The wizards!" Escanor bellowed, sweeping the Sword of the Dark Father in a wide horizontal arc that sent a half dozen drow warriors scattering just to avoid its incredible reach, and with bloodlust in his eyes Rapha drew his enchanted katana from its sheath and rounded on the unfortunate spellcaster, the master wizard Ravel Xorlarrin.

Clariburnus stabbed forward with his glaive, easily impaling the unfortunate drow standing in front of him, before turning to one side and bowling over another with a sweep of his arm; he had struck a series of blows to begin the battle that should have dispatched the Do'Urden weapon master easily, but all of them had been absorbed by some unseen magical barrier that even his enchanted weapon could not penetrate. Even as he glanced over his shoulder he caught a glimpse of Tiago Baenre tearing his longsword viciously out of the belly of a Shade foot soldier, who surely would have outclassed the diminutive dark elf were it not for his unnatural defenses.

"Hurry up, Yder, Gods damn you," the Fifth Prince cursed beneath his breath, even as a flurry of razor-sharp icicle shards thudded against his black glass armor, and with a growl he whirled to face the master wizard with whom Rapha was now locked in battle.

Rapha swiped diagonally down with his katana as he whispered an arcane trigger phrase beneath his breath, the timing so skillful that the spell was launching from his fingertips a half second before he had even completed his sword maneuver; Ravel cursed and whipped his _piwafwi_ around like a shield but this did little to shield him from the acidic spray that burst from Rapha's outstretched hand. The thick green substance chewed clean through the fine fabric, enchantments and all – leaving Ravel visibly unarmored, an advantage that Rapha was quick to press. Though his stroke was true it did not find its mark, and when the blade turned hopelessly to the side Ravel smirked triumphantly and brandished an obsidian wand from within the folds of his robes.

"Just like a hexblade," the drow wizard taunted. "A foppish display of force with no finesse!"

When the rubble had finished shifting and the dust was beginning to settle, Sixth Prince Yder hastily brushed bits of debris off his person and muttered irritably, "Well, I suppose we won't be going back that way. We had best press on and complete our business." Taking a brief headcount to ensure he hadn't lost any of his Divine Champions in the blast he led them through the foyer to the internal chapel, where personal slaves to the Do'Urden priestesses were bustling about and cowering away from the retribution of Shade; these Yder ignored, his eyes upon the elegant spiral staircase leading upstairs to where he was certain they would find the prayer chapel.

"Wands out," Yder instructed his disciples softly, pleased when they obeyed immediately and without question, and cresting the staircase Yder brought his holy chakras to bear –

A wave of devastating divine magic washed over him and his companions, leaving their minds in a fog and their stomach roiling sickly; Yder sank down to his knees with an arm coiled tightly against his midsection, unwilling to drop his weapon for even a moment. Through watering eyes he could just make out twelve figures huddled together around a grand altar to the Spider Queen Lolth, their prostrated forms casting chilling silhouettes upon the black marble as all around them violet candles danced along to their vehement prayers. For a moment Yder wasn't certain they would be able to complete their task, for it was clear the priestesses had the element of surprise as well as a great deal of clever preparation on their side –

But then something stirred on the opposite side of the prayer chamber, a translucent apparition composed of gently-pulsating starlight, and Yder recognized the Book of Shar cradled in the crook of the ghostly figure's arm in the instant before the spectral form of Second Prince Rivalen cried out to Shar for guidance. The divine call tugged at something deep within Yder's chest and somehow he managed to get his feet back under him as his vision miraculously began to clear, and simultaneously Rivalen's voice ripped through the chapel and felled three of the lesser priestesses through sheer force of will alone. To their credit the priestesses who remained – including Matron Mother Darthiir Do'Urden, arrayed in a position of honor at the head of the elaborately-decorated altar – hardly slowed in the recitation of their incantation, but Rivalen's interference was enough for Yder and his host of Divine Champions to prepare themselves for the next onslaught.

Except it did not come as predicted.

The frantic chanting of the priestesses who hadn't been felled by Rivalen's initial attack reached a haunting crescendo – Yder reflexively braced himself against the banister, anticipating yet another nauseating bout of holy magic, or worse – but in the moment before the final syllable was spoken a second spectral figure materialized at Rivalen's side. She held one hand aloft, a thin rod held delicately in her fingertips, and a blizzard burst from the tip of the artifact; the chapel exploded into a swirling gale of subzero winds and blinding, cutting ice crystals, and Yder had no choice but to flinch back several steps as two more drow priestesses' voices were silenced by Aveil Arthien's spell.

The seven dark elf females that remained struggled to strike up another fervent prayer to their goddess, but it was clear by the terror in their faces and the hesitation in their words that they had been put completely off-balance by the arrival of the two beings projecting from the Astral Sea; as Darthiir's eyes cut to where Aveil and Rivalen stood preparing yet another attack Yder at last leapt fully into the chapel with his chakras at the ready, bellowing for his Divine Champions to rise up and follow him. In the handful of seconds afforded to them before the priestesses regained their bearings two of the Divine Champions were able to combine the strength of their wands to lay waste to one as simultaneously Yder lopped the head of another –

Their efforts weren't enough to derail the iron wills of the five priestesses who remained though, and just as Yder was hefting his chakra for another stroke and Rivalen was racing through yet another prayer from the Book of Shar a bolt of mental energy rolled through the chapel, spearing the Sixth Prince and his disciples to their knees as telekinetic headaches left them helpless and reeling; through streaming eyes Yder could only watch, dismayed, as two of his Divine Champions breathed their last before their minds were crushed by the blast.

It might have spelled the end for the holy host from Thultanthar, but two among their number had no bodies to speak of, and thus no minds to assault.

Rivalen completed yet another prayer in the elegant and sprawling Netherese tongue only a moment later, and the piercing headache receded – the divine charm he had cast was a defensive one, meant to nullify the priestesses' magical effects. Yder regained his vision just in time to see Darthiir whip a wand from within the loose folds of her robes and level it in Rivalen's direction with killing intent in her eyes –

"_No!_" cried Aveil, her ethereal voice rippling oddly, and her spectral form blurred into pinpricks of dazzling stars as she moved; Rivalen reflexively threw up an arm to defend himself, Matron Mother Darthiir let fly with a potent banishing spell, and in the instant before the spell would have struck the Second Prince squarely in the chest the Sceptrana leapt before him with outstretched arms and grimly determined eyes.

The blast crashed into Aveil's astral form with the din of an explosion, and with a shriek of soul rending agony she vanished instantly.

"The Dark Mother take you," Rivalen spat vehemently, waving one starry hand over the open pages of the Book of Shar, and in a reverberating voice thick with divine authority he began to pray.

Yder was back on his feet now and closing in on the high priestess on Darthiir's right side, who had joined hands with one of the only lesser priestesses who had yet to be dispatched and was whispering a frantic incantation in a frightened undertone; their syllables were shaky and their cadence did not quite match, thankfully, so when the divine enchantment rolled over the Sixth Prince he was able to shake it off with little difficulty. He swung the chakra down, cutting the dark elf's throat with brutal efficiency, and beside him his Divine Champions were making quick work of those priestesses that remained.

Matron Mother Darthiir was racing through a prayer to the Spider Queen, her fearful eyes upon Rivalen, but Yder knew there was no way she could hope to best his elder brother in this – the retribution in the Second Prince's eyes was plain to see, and if there was one thing Dark Lady Shar was quick to reward, it was vengeance against any who had wronged those she bestowed favor upon. Darthiir's incantation was nowhere near completion when Rivalen completed his prayer in a steady and determined timbre, and the magic that rolled off his tongue was potent enough that it sent a shudder coursing involuntarily down Yder's spine.

The spell crept like an unseen killer through the prayer chamber, and the moment it rolled over Matron Mother Darthiir her eyes simply rolled back in her head as she collapsed lifelessly to the ground.

"A gift for the Night Mother," Rivalen finished, closing the Book of Shar with a snap of finality, and sparing a brief nod for his brother the Second Prince vanished in a shower of glittering silver stardust.

Rapha knew the precise moment when Yder and the Divine Champions of Shar had succeeded in their task to eliminate the Do'Urden priestesses – it was the first time he lashed out with yet another expert stroke of his katana and it met no resistance save the purchase it found in Ravel Xorlarrin's flesh. The wizard yelped and flinched away, his robes torn and bloodied over his right shoulder, and adjusting his stance Rapha stalked in and pressed the advantage until he had reduced his adversary to an unrecognizable heap of gore at his feet.

The Army of Shade was hard at work eliminating any remaining drow and putting their useless slave fodder to the sword by the time the Princes of Shade met in the prayer chapel within the Do'Urden compound, having shadow-walked there at the conclusion of the battle.

"These drow are foul, self-centered creatures," Rapha pointed out distastefully, stalking through the chapel and methodically piercing each dead priestess's heart with his katana as a precaution. "The Army of Shade walks brazenly through their wretched city, yet they make no move to stand against us. They would sooner watch their kin be slaughtered like animals than raise a sword in defense of a rival house."

"There is no prejudice so long-lived that would prevent a Prince of Shade from assisting his brother in a time of such dire need," agreed Yder emphatically, clapping his younger brother companionably on the shoulder as he passed.

Clariburnus, however, took a more pragmatic approach. "It is their way, a tradition they have practiced reverently since the inception of their city. Inter-house warfare is as commonplace for them as the universal worship of Shar is for us – it is what their entire matriarchy is based upon. Only the strongest survive in Menzoberranzan – doubtless the Matron Mothers of the other houses upon the ruling council unanimously believe that if House Do'Urden was meant to survive, it would have been possessed of the strength to do so alone. Its fall only proves to them that the Do'Urdens were not deserving of their place upon the ruling council."

"It is not the concern of the Princes of Shade how the dark elves choose to govern their city or their way of life," reminded Escanor, effectively ending any further debate. "We are here to deliver the High Prince's vengeance. Let us discuss our next target quickly, and then withdraw to the tunnels. It may not be typical for rival drow houses to band together, but I would not put it past them to do so in order to cast us out."

"With the defeat of House Do'Urden, it is now House Melarn that is the weakest family upon the ruling council," Clariburnus informed them. "However, we should discuss splitting our forces and attacking more than one house at a time if we are to retain the element of surprise. Now that the Matron Mothers have seen how ruthless the Princes of Shade can be in battle, it is only a matter of time before they choose to employ unorthodox tactics against us."

Escanor stroked his chin with one hand, clearly considering the Fifth Prince's proposal. "And if we chose to do so?"

"House Fey-Branche would be our next additional target," Clariburnus supplied.

"Take care," Yder cautioned from the post he had taken up near the staircase – though their victory over House Do'Urden was absolute, he still seemed wary. "The priestesses of House Do'Urden were formidable foes – were it not for the timely intervention of Rivalen and the Sceptrana, we would have been hard pressed to defeat them."

"And as the priestesses were responsible for the protective enchantments nullifying our attacks on their strongest warriors, we might have had difficulty in the end as well," Rapha concluded sourly, wiping his blade clean on the torn robes of one of the deceased female drow.

Thoughtfully Escanor asked, "Might Rivalen and Aveil consider assisting us with the battles to come? With their continued aid I feel confident that few drow priestesses could pose a threat to you and your Divine Champions."

Yder could only shrug in response. "Perhaps, but I am not certain. Projecting oneself onto the Astral Sea is taxing on both the body and the soul – if they overexert themselves, any number of ill fates could await them. The soul could wander the Astral Sea unable to return to its body, or it could sustain too much physical damage and simply cease to be… I pity the Sceptrana after what she endured today."

Escanor's back straightened infinitesimally; Clariburnus, watching his eldest brother quite closely, did not miss the sudden change in his posture. He held little love for Aveil, but he knew that the Most High held her in great esteem. "What danger has befallen the Sceptrana?"

"Struck by a banishing spell," Yder told them gravely. "One of the strongest of its kind I have ever beheld, and one meant for Rivalen. He would be in quite a sorry state right now were it not for her swift action, but being a Prince of Shade he would undoubtedly have survived. In the Sceptrana's case I cannot say… she is but mortal, after all."

"Her penchant for self-sacrifice reminds me often of Soleil," admitted Escanor with a touch of fondness to his voice. "Let us all pray to the Night Mother for the Sceptrana's preservation – surely she deserves the Dark Lady's divine intervention as a reward for her bravery."

"We should withdraw from this place," Clariburnus put in. "These speculations are better suited to a less dangerous locale, and I would sooner chance my safety in the wilds of the Underdark than here amongst the traitorous and bloodthirsty children of the Spider Queen. We have wounded who will need to be tended by the clerics and the Divine Champions of Shar, and we will need to discuss in greater detail how best to proceed next."

"Well spoken, brother," Rapha agreed, at last sliding his katana into the bejeweled sheath upon his hip and facing his three siblings with a cocksure grin. "Shall we?"

Rivalen's eyes darted to and fro wildly, unsurprised when at first glance he saw nothing of value. It would have behooved him to depart Menzoberranzan immediately in pursuit of Aveil's crippled soul, but he had feared what might befall Yder and the Divine Champions in his absence. Shar's influence was always with him, filling him with her guidance, and he knew he had been right to choose Yder's plight at the time, but that did not stop him from chastising himself for that choice now. He had lost precious minutes in killing Matron Mother Darthiir, and those minutes could mean the difference between life and death for Aveil.

He navigated the Astral Sea with ease as he kept a lookout for the Sceptrana's wayward spirit, growing silently more anxious all the while. The trouble with this plane of existence, he knew, was that if you were wholly unfamiliar with it the risk of losing your way was high – for Aveil this risk was even greater, for after the blow she had sustained it was likely her soul was unaware of its surroundings and drifting aimlessly along, a helpless target for any natural denizens of the Astral Sea who might seek to cause her further harm. Had he outfitted her soul with a projection cord – a common precaution practiced by sorcerers and wizards who were unfamiliar with such an unpredictable plane of existence - prior to their departure he might have followed it to her easily, but he had been overconfident and careless. He had foolishly assumed that his mere presence would be enough to keep her safe.

She had undoubtedly saved his life twice now, Rivalen realized with a pang of real guilt. It was his responsibility to ensure that no further harm befell her - and if she was in danger still, he silently vowed to protect her.

He was drifting along serenely, murmuring fervent prayers for Shar to guide his way, when several minutes later he spotted the silver-and-black starlit composition of a soul projected onto the Astral Sea; there was no mistaking Aveil even from a distance, for he recognized the gentle ripple of her hair and the billowing robes she wore. Muttering a soft thanks to the Night Mother for her timely intervention he willed his spirit form forward, his eyes fixed upon her motionless form, eternally grateful that no further harm seemed to have befallen her.

Rivalen was not the first to reach her.

He was nearly there – unaccustomed to the strange ebb and flow of pseudo-reality that characterized the Astral Sea he moved slower than he would have on the Material Plane – when a trio of githyanki stumbled upon the Sceptrana's spirit and howled in apparent victory. Rivalen cursed and willed his body to make haste, but it was useless – githyanki called the Astral Sea their home and moved with both speed and grace through their realm of existence, and they were known for their cruelty toward surface dwellers and other outsiders. As he watched, horrified, they cackled with wicked glee and lashed out with filthy claw-tipped fingers, tearing shreds out of the Sceptrana's fragile soul and scattering stardust in all directions with every stroke.

So he prayed, perhaps harder and more fervently than he had ever prayed in his entire life. And as she always did, Dark Lady Shar answered his devout prayers.

A spell sprang from the fingertips of his outstretched hand, bolts of pure shadow energy gifted to him from his goddess; guided by Shar's almighty influence the bolts struck his three adversaries and miraculously missed the tattered soul over which they squabbled, and howling with agony the trio of githyanki recoiled and scattered. By that time Rivalen had reached her, and tucking the astral projection of the Book of Shar within a sling concealed by his robes he stretched out both arms and cradled the remains of Aveil's soul as gingerly as he could.

Thankfully the Sceptrana was still recognizable – a good sign – but her spirit had taken extensive damage; the frayed edges of the Matron Mother's banishing spell were clearly visible in the center of Aveil's chest, a ragged hole of blackened nothingness where before there had been a silvery patchwork of light and stars. What's more, the githyanki had torn horrible lacerations down her arms and legs – ribbons of starlight were all that remained of her extremities, and try as he might Rivalen could not piece them together with his hands.

"I beg of you," the Second Prince murmured, "take us home, Divine Lady."

He felt his soul begin to dissolve as sand running through a sieve – reflexively he tightened his arms around Aveil, concerned that in the dematerialization he would lose her again – and in the next instant he was standing beside his and the Sceptrana's motionless bodies. His first instinct was to reunite his spirit with his own body, but with careful control he refrained – stepping back into his own body while supporting another soul was quite dangerous, as the wayward soul might accidentally bond to a body that was not its own, so instead he stooped and released the shreds of diamond-like astral matter that was Aveil's soul and watched as they drifted back into her body. The moment he was certain every last scrap had been assimilated he turned and joined with his body, and blinking he returned fully to the Material Plane, and to awareness.

The first thing he became aware of was that Aveil's body still lay motionless on the floor beside the altar; her eyes hadn't opened, and at first glance it was clear that she wasn't drawing breath.

"Damn it all to hell," Rivalen growled, casting himself onto the ground beside her and dragging her into his lap. He knew the life remained in her yet simply because he could_ feel_ it – her cheeks were flushed, and her skin felt warm beneath his hands, but there was no denying that something about her felt _wrong_ somehow. Though her soul and body had become one again, she was not herself – there was some disconnect between the two, some damage that needed repaired at all costs if she was to wake ever again.

Unsure what to do Second Prince Rivalen just knelt there, Aveil's frail mortal body cradled in his arms and her head lolling lifelessly against his chest, and prayed.

It was he all knew.


	9. Chapter Nine - Smoke and Mirrors

After expending a great deal of effort simply struggling to regain his feet Lamorak stood there unsteadily, incredulity burning through his fatigue; Hadrhune met his gaze levelly but warily, waiting for the first reprimand to fall. A disheveled book slipped from a nearby bookshelf and crashed to the floor, its pages bent and torn from the gale, but they were both momentarily oblivious to the wreckage around them; broken glass and scraps of parchment and charred furnishings settled in mangled piles at their feet, but still no one spoke.

_Now you've done it,_ sighed Phendrana melodramatically, running a hand down his face and wishing for all the world that he could wrest control back from the shadow sorcerer, but he had already tried and failed twice to regain mastery of his own body – at present, the seneschal's grip on his body's motor functions and mental facilities was simply too strong to overthrow. The sensation of being a passenger was so far removed that it felt almost foreign, and the doppelganger couldn't say he cared for it much.

Their shared subconscious darkened considerably, Hadrhune's silent warning that Phendrana's sarcasm wouldn't be tolerated, and the mindmaster wisely bit back the rest of his half-formed wisecracks.

Lamorak opened his mouth hotly, some vehement remark poised on his tongue to be delivered with the force of a whip-crack; the veil of shadows clinging to his body rapidly deteriorated, he swayed uncertainly on the spot, and without warning the Third Prince swooned unceremoniously for the floor. Phendrana cried out despairingly but his concern was short-lived; quick as lightning Hadrhune was there, encircling Lamorak's limp figure with his arms and easing him with exaggerated care to the ground. Something about the seneschal's uncharacteristic caution stole the anger from Lamorak's eyes and he sighed, allowing the tension to ease out of his extremities.

"Hadrhune," he said a second time, in a tone that suggested perhaps he had yet to convince himself of the truth.

"Yes, Prince," the seneschal confirmed obediently, and his trepidation was a palpable thing that Phendrana could feel.

"What have you done with Phendrana?" the Third Prince snapped inhospitably, and the displeasure in his voice caused Hadrhune to flinch back in alarm.

"He is here," Hadrhune replied reassuringly, though he seemed too aloof, too stiff, too formal; he was wounded by Lamorak's less-than-favorable reception of him, it seemed. "I am merely a passenger… only my psyche remains, now tethered to his mind."

Lamorak nodded once in bitter acceptance. "I would like very much to speak with him."

It was clear by his tone that this was a command and not a request, and so Hadrhune did nothing to dissuade him; control of the body they shared was passed seamlessly to Phendrana, who took it mechanically and assumed his natural form in the blink of an eye. Lamorak shifted a little, supporting some of his weight stubbornly despite his clear exhaustion, but Phendrana did not release him. They stared at one another unblinkingly for a moment that might have lasted an eternity, and though it occurred to Phendrana how close they were he never considered that perhaps he should move away.

"The darkness in your mind," Lamorak pointed out, in awe of his newfound understanding. "Your detachment from those around you… the voice that Brennus and I occasionally heard shrieking in agony in your thoughts… It is all because of Hadrhune."

Phendrana gazed solemnly back at the Determinist Prime, profound guilt and ancient sadness shining in his eyes, and said nothing.

"The night of the wedding… after Brennus rescued Lim, and we learned of Hadrhune's death… he was already with you then," the Third Prince surmised thoughtfully. "When I came upon you and you were utterly lost and distraught, you had already assimilated him into your body. He was in your mind then, screaming. His presence has been driving you slowly mad ever since that day."

"Hadrhune longs for death," Phendrana explained, regret apparent in every sorrowful line of his face. "In my desperation to save him, to keep even a fraction of his existence alive, I denied him the one thing that might have granted him true solace. With his dying breath he asked me to let him go, and I refused. I knew that one day we would have need of that same sense of selfless sacrifice that allowed him to save Soleil… I couldn't bear to watch him die, knowing that I could save him."

But you didn't save me, Hadrhune pointed out cruelly. I died that day, and whatever you preserved of me is only a shadow of the man I once was. You cannot deny that, Phendrana.

"I know," Phendrana murmured, dropping his gaze to the ground; Lamorak continued to watch him, certain he wasn't the one being addressed, and felt a pang of sympathy for the doppelganger's impossible predicament. Phendrana had always been much like Soleil in that he considered the preservation of the Twelve Princes of Shade and their allies his sworn and sacred duty, but what was the right answer when the person you meant to save didn't want to be saved?

"You thought you were doing the right thing," Lamorak surmised softly, surprising himself with the uncharacteristic gentleness in his own voice, and when Phendrana managed to glance back up to regard the Third Prince it was obvious in the widening of his eyes that he was just as taken aback by it. "Your love for all those the High Prince loves, regardless of how you may feel personally, has always been blatantly obvious. And it may be that one day we will all be eternally grateful for the decision you have made – Hadrhune may long for Manifest, but I am certain he is just as loyal to the Princes of Shade now as he ever was in life. He would never let his displeasure at remaining tethered to the living world against his will interfere with his duties as the Most High's emissary. He has far too much pride for that."

"I suspect you may be right," Phendrana agreed, and though Hadrhune seethed at these words the mindmaster felt no outright disagreement forthcoming. "Can you stand?"

He helped the Third Prince regain his feet with great care, for though Lamorak's condition was already improving his face still appeared rather gaunt in the absence of the protective veil of shadows normally swathing his body; they stood together in the center of Lamorak's once-lavish private quarters and observed the smoldering wreckage in silence for a minute or more, at a loss for how to proceed, until Phendrana had mustered up the courage to broach the subject.

"That man was quite unlike any creature I have ever glimpsed with my own eyes," he observed diplomatically, "and I have traveled much in my lifetime, Prince."

Lamorak heaved a tragic sigh and stooped carefully, retrieving the _Imaskarcana_ from amongst a pile of other books that had all been mostly incinerated in the chaos; he made a show of dusting the tome's cover clean, though it seemed to Phendrana's eye that the book appeared just as pristine and impervious as ever. "You recall how I spoke to you briefly of High Imaskar during your last visit?"

Phendrana was now picking his way through the smoking debris, dutifully looking for anything that could be salvaged. "I do."

"There is a matter of great importance I meant to share with you then, but I was unable for reasons I'm certain you recall well." Lamorak avoided Phendrana's eyes as he spoke these words, still painstakingly brushing the cover of the _Imaskarcana_ clean though of course no ash marred its surface; with crashing realization Phendrana remembered throwing the book open in a desperate bid to glimpse Brennus's face, only to be met with the image of sprawling golden manuscript penned in a painfully familiar hand. "The Imaskari did not perish back then, when High Imaskar was overrun. A small cabal of wizards struck out from their ancestral homeland and fled for the Underdark, where it is said they founded the city of Deep Imaskar somewhere in the caverns far below the Surface World. The man who just appeared before us seems to be an authority figure of some sort from that civilization – he called himself Voltain Darkydle, Lord Artificer."

"Artificer?" Phendrana echoed, his voice muffled as he rummaged beneath the charred furnishings of the Third Prince's bed – a moment later he emerged with Third Queen Maedra's journals tucked carefully beneath one arm, all with singed covers but miraculously intact, and Lamorak breathed an audible sigh of relief.

"A title of great power in their culture, something akin to High Prince I imagine. The Lord Artificer is the undisputed ruler of Deep Imaskar. Typically this person is widely considered the strongest spellcaster in the city, a skill that the Deep Imaskari consider sacred." Lamorak was frowning darkly to himself at some unpleasant memory when he finished, "In the short time I found myself at odds with him, I'd say the moniker is well deserved – if you and Hadrhune hadn't arrived when you did I would have been hard pressed to keep him at bay."

"Hadrhune," Phendrana repeated wonderingly, and when he felt he had the seneschal's full attention he asked, "Lamorak once said that a person could only utilize the _Imaskarcana _by speaking in Roushoum – he also mentioned that the only reason he is versed in that language at all is because he has studied the late Queen's journals so extensively. Yet you clearly summoned the book from Voltain Darkydle, and you were able to cast a spell powerful enough to drive him away. How could you have possibly gained knowledge of such an ancient and little known language?"

The shadow sorcerer scoffed. _Well of course I didn't. _

Lamorak was studying Phendrana's face with deep fascination; the mindmaster abruptly remembered that the Third Prince was well versed enough in telepathy that he was likely listening to Hadrhune's responses with his mind. "Then how…?"

_I implored Prince Brennus for aid, if you recall,_ Hadrhune reminded with impatient disdain, and Phendrana's eyes veritably doubled in size as the reality of the situation at last sank in.

"He heard you," Phendrana breathed wondrously, his eyes shifting to the book clutched almost possessively in Lamorak's arms. "He _understood you_."

"What's more, he responded," the Third Prince pointed out, the characteristic clinical expression hitching itself back onto his face as he flipped the _Imaskarcana _open in his hand and began feverishly rifling through its pages as though looking for something. "In the time I've spent poring over the book it never occurred to me that I might be able to communicate with him somehow – what a remarkable breakthrough! The implications… Phendrana, do you realize what this might mean?" When the doppelganger shook his head blankly Lamorak hurried on, "It means that Brennus is still _alive_ somewhere within these pages… that his consciousness still functions, and he retains some level of awareness despite his predicament!"

_It means that there is a possibility he might yet be restored to his former self,_ mused Hadrhune, and this news came as such a profound relief that Phendrana nearly sank to his knees.

Lamorak was looking both excited yet thoughtful. "When we found that Brennus had been assimilated into the _Imaskarcana_ I assumed the worst – that as yet another page in the book he was lost to us, and there couldn't possibly be any redeeming him. But if his consciousness remains… if he is truly still alive in there somewhere… it would take an extensive amount of research and a great deal of time, but surely I could find a way to restore him?"

Phendrana couldn't help the flicker of hope that Lamorak's words rekindled somewhere deep within his chest. "Do you truly think…?"

Eyes shining with fresh resolve and determination Lamorak closed the distance between them and clapped a hand down upon Phendrana's shoulder bracingly, saying, "The _Imaskarcana _may very well be the strongest magical artifacts now in existence upon Faerun, but I cannot accept that they are all powerful. If the wizard-kings of Imaskar created these spells, surely they also fashioned the methods by which they could be undone. If there is a way to recover Brennus, I will find it."

"You would do that?" Not for the first time, Phendrana was in awe of him.

"He is my brother," replied Lamorak solemnly. "There is nothing I would not do for him."

Pardon my intrusion, interjected Hadrhune a little testily, but now may not be the best time for such speculations. The prospect of recovering Prince Brennus is a welcome one, to be sure, but unfortunately I believe we have more pressing matters to attend to at the moment. Prince Lamorak's quarters are in shambles, and we must report Voltain Darkydle's passing to the High Prince at once. The unprovoked attack on a Prince of Shade and the complete nullification of Thultanthar's magical defenses are both matters of great concern, and we need to take the necessary precautions immediately.

Lamorak's face turned grave. "I agree, but any precautions we take might be for naught. The Lord Artificer wields one of the _Imaskarcana_ – there is no mistaking the devastating arcane potential I felt emanating from the tome he carried – and I daresay if he truly wished to disturb us again he would find a way to do so."

Be that as it may, Hadrhune pressed, I must insist that the Most High be told. Please forgive my audacity, Prince.

"There is nothing to forgive," said Lamorak mildly, and beckoning for Phendrana to follow he picked his way through the rubble toward the door, which was hanging precariously from its topmost hinge. "It is as I told Phendrana earlier – your body may have perished, Hadrhune, but your loyalty to the Princes of Shade has not." They were halfway down the staircase when the Third Prince rounded on Phendrana suddenly, stopping him in his tracks and fixing him with a serious stare. "You know that I must inform the High Prince of Hadrhune's presence within your mind, Phendrana."

The doppelganger heaved a melancholy sigh but knew better than to protest. "I do. I am prepared to accept any punishment the Most High deems appropriate for this transgression."

Lamorak managed a kind of grim smile before dropping his hand upon the mindmaster's shoulder again, but the gesture was different this time – gentler, reassuring. "You know I will do my best to ensure that no harm befalls you."

With a start Phendrana found that he believed these words wholeheartedly. "I do know."

The smile Lamorak wore broadened slightly – his hand upon Phendrana's shoulder may have tightened infinitesimally for the briefest of moments – and then he turned and led the way out of Villa Illumen, calling for the housekeeping staff to begin renovations on his private quarters as they went.

The timid knock at the door of the hospital ward was barely loud enough to stir Second Prince Rivalen from his state of reverie – he was still quite fatigued from his foray into the Astral Sea, and he hadn't slept since returning from that strange plane of existence. "At your leisure," he called wearily, sitting up straighter, and the door cracked open to admit twin princes Mattick and Vattick.

"I hope we did not wake you," said Vattick apologetically by way of greeting, but Rivalen shook his head.

"If I sleep I may lose her," he admitted solemnly, gesturing in Aveil's direction with one hand. "I commune with the Night Mother when I am lucid enough to do so, and when I drift I meditate on the desired outcome. The Dark Lady hears me. If I continue to implore her for aid, she will honor my request – in the hundreds of years I have spent faithfully serving her, she has never once refused to answer my prayers."

Mattick and Vattick glanced past the chair Rivalen occupied to the hospital bed beside which he sat, where Aveil lay as still as a corpse; with her cheeks flushed with life and her bosom ever so slightly rising and falling it was easy to pretend that the Sceptrana was merely sleeping, but there was something simply _wrong_ about her appearance. Vattick couldn't quite put a finger on it – was it the way her body seemed to lack its luster, as though all color and vitality had been drained out of it somehow? – but Mattick approached their older brother at once and extended a hand, in which was clutched a glass vial filled with some swirling silver-and-black liquid.

"The concoction you requested is complex," Mattick warned, "but we have done our best for you, brother. If the damage wrecked upon her spirit is truly what is keeping her in this state, the potion will help to repair it."

Rivalen sat a little straighter, taking the vial from Mattick's outstretched hand as a spark of hope flared to life in his dull eyes. "Truly?"

Vattick approached at length and drew level with his twin, but though he was nodding his agreement his eyes were downcast. "Be advised, however, that this potion does not have the ability to mend a person's soul in all cases. If the damage is terminal, it will do very little to help her. You should not cease your prayers to the Night Mother, in my opinion."

As he was removing the stopper from the vial, Rivalen paused. "Has the High Prince been informed?"

The twins shared an uneasy glance – it was clear from their bewildered expressions that they had been hoping to avoid this topic at all costs. At length Vattick answered with great hesitation, "I had almost reached the throne room when I was accosted by Aglarel… he demanded that I tell him all that I knew, and then insisted upon notifying the Most High himself. Regrettably I had to allow him to do so – I of course do not have the authority to decline."

"You were right to defer to Aglarel's judgment," Rivalen reassured him, though his expression had greatly soured at this news. "It would only have caused discord had you refused. I suspect when he has finished delivering his report to the High Prince and slandering my name for the part I played in the Sceptrana's condition he will find us – you would both do well to be gone before then."

"Nonsense," Mattick interjected hotly. "We will not sit by while Aglarel blames you for the ill that has befallen the Sceptrana. We know the tale. Had you not rescued her – "

"She is only in this state because I requested her help," Rivalen overrode him angrily, lowering the vial a fraction and fixing the Eighth Prince with a forbidding glare. "Had I seen to this task alone she would have been sound asleep in her bed while I traversed the Astral Sea, and no harm would have befallen her."

"And the banishing spell that the Matron Mother cast?" Vattick came to his twins' defense with a roar. "It would have struck true, and where would you be now? Aimlessly careening through the Astral Sea at the mercy of every uncivilized denizen that resides within it, powerless to defend yourself from their assaults upon your soul, with none of us the wiser! You would have been _lost_, Rivalen!"

Rivalen's shoulders slumped a little at this, but Vattick's words did nothing to dim his resolve. "That may be," the Second Prince acknowledged reluctantly, lifting the vial to his lips yet again, "but I think I may have preferred such an outcome. This mortal has been risking her well-being, her life, her very _soul_ for the preservation of the Tanthul family from the moment she set foot within the City of Shade, and it is time now that someone risked something for her." And taking the precious potion into his mouth Rivalen sat gingerly at Aveil's bedside, drawing her carefully into a sitting position; his fingertips found her chin and he eased her head gently back before fastening his lips over hers and expelling the potion into her mouth with great care, lingering there until he was certain every last drop had trickled down her throat.

It was at that precise moment the door to the hospital ward banged open yet again, this time heralding the wrathful arrival of Fourth Prince Aglarel; Mattick and Vattick jumped back from Aveil's bedside as though it had physically shocked them, and Rivalen withdrew from the Sceptrana's lips before easing her carefully back down and rising to face his enraged brother.

For a moment that transcended the normal trappings of time they stared one another down, and none present dared to speak – silently the twin princes wished with all their might they had taken their leave when Rivalen had first suggested it. When Aglarel spoke it was not in the half-crazed roar they had anticipated, but in an icy undertone they had to strain to hear.

"What have you done?" he hissed through tightly-clenched teeth, his hands curled into fists at his sides and his eyes narrowed into severe slits.

"I have saved the Sceptrana's life." Rivalen chose to neglect the crucial detail that she would not have needed saving were it not for him, but he wasn't foolish enough to believe that Aglarel wouldn't point that detail out the moment the opportunity arose.

Aglarel stalked a single predatory step forward, his eyes fixed upon Aveil's unmoving body partially concealed behind Mattick and Vattick, and was it a trick of the light or had his eyes taken on an unnatural crimson hue? "You have compromised her safety. You have gambled her life in pursuit of your own ends."

A single harsh laugh ripped mirthlessly from Rivalen's throat at this. "My ends?" he repeated bemusedly. "I don't think I need to remind you that we are at war, brother – often we must utilize every tool at our disposal in order to champion our enemies, and the Sceptrana has proven to be an invaluable asset to our cause. If you are concerned that my motivations deviate from the High Prince's agenda, you are more than welcome to take the issue up with him – but because of our actions this night, House Do'Urden has fallen and the Army of Shade has secured a pivotal first victory in the war against Menzoberranzan. When the Sceptrana wakes she will be proud of her hand in this, and doubtless the Most High will reward her for her bravery."

"And if she does not wake," Aglarel fired back, "are you prepared to face the consequences? Have you prepared yourself for the High Prince's retribution? Aveil is his personal authority on the arcane arts – woe betide you if he should suddenly find himself lacking her counsel on account of a decision that _you _will be held solely responsible for!"

Rivalen brushed past his twin brothers and squared up to face Aglarel with an eerie and glacial calm, hardly concerned that the Fourth Prince was physically stronger – he had the goddess Shar on his side, after all. Growing tired of Aglarel's blatant insubordination he crossed his arms over his chest and murmured, "I wonder – how much of your bluster is genuine concern over the High Prince's agenda, and how much is your personal feelings clouding your judgment?"

That set Aglarel back on his heels; the curious red tint faded from his vision and his expression crumpled into one of surprise and confusion. Rivalen, who had privately wondered at the dynamic of Aglarel and Aveil's relationship of late, had not expected such a telling reaction – how much truth was there to his accusation? "The High Prince has charged me with her care," the Fourth Prince floundered, and by now even Mattick and Vattick were raising questioning eyebrows. "She assists me in many sensitive matters, the vast majority of which have been set upon us by the Most High himself. We work closely together, but our partnership is strictly professional. I hold the High Prince's agenda nearer to my heart than anyone – you may have seniority over me, brother, but I will not tolerate such a slight against my character."

"Then you care nothing for the Sceptrana's plight?" If Aglarel was going to steadfastly lie about the emotions fueling his concerns, Rivalen was determined to make him state those words plainly – the dishonesty of his own false confession would torment Aglarel greatly, who despite his ruthlessness was an inherently truthful man. "You despair only at the thought of losing such an irreplaceable ally?"

"Of course I do," growled Aglarel, though his mouth seemed to have some difficulty forming the words, and he frowned severely the moment he was through.

"Is that so?" rasped a weak voice behind them, and turning back the four Princes of Shade watched as with tremendous effort Aveil propped herself up on her elbows and fixed Aglarel with a wide-eyed gaze that was betrayed, infuriated, and dismayed all at once.

Perhaps he imagined it, but Rivalen was certain the protective veil of shadows clinging to Aglarel's frame withered and thinned to find the Sceptrana awake at such an inopportune time.

Rivalen put Aveil at his back, sliding minutely to the left to block her from Aglarel's view as he drew in a steadying breath. "Then you do her a great disservice," the Second Prince confessed at length, gazing back at his brother with a stony kind of solemnity. "You more than anyone should know how much she has sacrificed for us in her two years of servitude, and she deserves to be viewed as far more than our subordinate, or even our ally. And in the time she has spent here she has made it clear to us all that _you_ have been her first priority – and if this is how you choose to repay such loyalty, I do not think you deserve her."

"Prince – " Aveil attempted to intervene, her voice dismayed, but Rivalen would hear no more on the subject; Aglarel just stood there, eyes filled with hatred, but still he would not offer any apology or explanation and the Second Prince felt the opportunity was long past for such things.

"Do not waste your breath, Aveil," Rivalen bade her in a voice that was both kind yet stern, taking some pleasure from the way Aglarel's eyes flashed furiously at his brother's open familiarity with the Sceptrana. "There are hard truths my brother must learn, and foremost amongst these is that those the High Prince invites into our fold are far more than our emissaries to be ordered about on our whim – they are our friends, or dare I say, a part of our family. In my opinion you have long since earned that right, and for what you have done today I will uphold your honor. Aglarel, I must insist that you leave now. The Sceptrana has suffered through quite a trying ordeal, and she needs to rest and recover."

Still Aglarel did not budge from where he stood, his eyes upon Rivalen brimming with rage, but when he shifted his gaze to Aveil that expression softened into one that could almost be called shame. "Later, when you are feeling sufficiently rested, I should like the opportunity to talk to you and clear up this unfortunate misunderstanding."

Rivalen was certain Aveil would answer in the affirmative, but she surprised them all then. "With all due respect, Prince, I do not think such a conversation will be necessary." The Second Prince glanced over his shoulder at this and raised a questioning eyebrow, but Aveil avoided his gaze and focused every ounce of her indignation on Aglarel. "I think you have made your stance on the matter perfectly clear, and I do not feel the need to discuss it any further. However you can rest assured that I will return to my duties as soon as I have recovered, and I will continue to serve you as diligently as I have always done."

Abruptly, it seemed, there was nothing left to say; Aglarel watched Aveil's face for a moment longer - searching, perhaps, for any hint of uncertainty upon which to capitalize – but turned away shortly thereafter and let himself out without another word.

Aveil watched him go, face carefully arranged into an expression of cool resignation, but as near as he was standing Rivalen did not miss the tears pooling in her eyes.

Voltain Darkydle rematerialized within his carefully constructed circle of teleportation within the Emerald Atrium with a roar of fury, resisting the urge the cast the Fifth _Imaskarcana_ across the room with great difficulty. So close! He had been so near to his goal, the Sixth _Imaskarcana_ had been barely out of arms' length, he had stood so close to it that he had felt the devastating arcane potential radiating from its cover. To be foiled at the last possible moment by a mysterious doppelganger and what Voltain considered a profound stroke of luck was nothing short of infuriating. The enormity of his task settled upon his slender shoulders with an almost-tangible weight then – the degree of difficulty involved in reclaiming the Sixth _Imaskarcana_ would only increase exponentially from here on out, and he would need to regain his strength before making another attempt.

"Didn't go the way you'd hoped?" asked a pouty girl's voice from behind him, and grinding his teeth together in utter exasperation Voltain turned to find Illyria Linovahle sitting cross-legged just outside the teleportation circle, painstakingly reapplying a fresh coat of lurid plum lipstick as she watched him with a mocking sort of bemusement.

"Clearly," Voltain snapped, throwing his arms open to indicate that he held only one volume of the _Imaskarcana_ on his person and not two as he had hoped. Allowing his anger to fuel his actions the Lord Artificer stalked across the room and jabbed an index finger in the gloaming's direction accusingly, adding, "Your fatespinning techniques have failed me, Illyria. You vowed that I would hold the Sixth _Imaskarcana_ in my hands. You assured me that you'd seen as much in your divinations."

Illyria scoffed, hardly impressed by Voltain's show of bravado. "You're right, I did say that. But if you think back over our little chats you'll realize that I never said _when_."

A sickening realization dawned on Voltain as he considered this detail, and upon further reflection he came to understand that the irritating little creature was right on the mark as usual. Mentally berating himself for omitting such a crucial piece of information Voltain crouched down until he was face to face with Illyria, his teeth bared in an expression of manic rage, and snarled, "Tell me when, you wretched girl, and tell me quickly, for I am swiftly reaching the end of my patience for you and your games."

"I don't know exactly when," Illyria told him loftily, but there was a trace of mischievousness in her eyes that made Voltain feel quite certain she knew far more than she was letting on. "But I knew it wouldn't be today."

"And you didn't think to mention as much before I departed for Thultanthar?!" roared the Lord Artificer, throwing his hands in the air in utter defeat and whirling away from her, a sure sign that his anger was beginning to get the better of him and override his better judgment. "Have you any idea the resources I expended on this venture?! Countless spell components, some of them exceedingly rare! A significant amount of my own arcane abilities, which will take at least a full day to regenerate! And above all precious _time_, a resource that I cannot regain! And for what, Illyria?! To alert the Princes of Shade to my existence, and worse still, my intentions?! They will be increasingly wary from this point forward – another infiltration of this nature would be foolhardy indeed, even taking into account my superior knowledge of the _Imaskarcana_! The prince claiming false ownership over the tome is far better versed in its magic than I could ever have guessed – and given more time his arcane prowess will only increase!"

Illyria opened her poorly-painted mouth to fire back a retort, but then her eyes glazed over and she grew frighteningly still; having witnessed this disturbing behavior before Voltain dropped down to the ground before her and kept his eyes fixed upon her face as her eyes gazed sightlessly upon events he could not see.

Events that had yet to occur.

"A desert wasteland," the gloaming began in a vague undertone, her vacant gaze searching. "A lost kingdom hidden in the spur of a golden mountain. Ruins beneath the sand, lost in some ancient cataclysm, guarded by wicked creatures and deadly, long-forgotten magic. It is here that you will unearth the Fourth _Imaskarcana_, long believed to be forever lost in the ravages of time and the unforgiving elements of the desert. It is here, in the skies above the wreckage, where you will do battle with Prince Lamorak of Shade, and claim his tome for your own."

"What else?" Voltain pressed, daring despite his discomfort to edge a few inches nearer and drop both his hands down firmly upon her delicate shoulders. Though he had been privy to Illyria's mysterious fatespinning fits before he had scarcely gotten used to such behavior, for the girl he knew was constantly capricious, immature, and something of a trickster; when Illryia glimpsed a series of images from a future yet to unfold she was wise beyond her years and cryptic as a wizened sage. Knowing her as he did, he could freely admit to himself how unnerving a display it was. "Tell me what else you see, Illyria. Where is this place?"

"Desert. Kingdom. Mountain. Ruins." Illyria intoned this mantra carefully back to him, as though within those four words Voltain might find all the answers he sought and more.

"When?" growled the Lord Artificer, giving her an insistent little shake, unsurprised when jostling her hardly broke her trancelike state. "_When_, Illyria?!" But after several moments of tense silence the troublesome little gloaming drew in a great shuddering breath and pitched forward theatrically, and it was clear to Voltain that the time for questions was over – his unlikely companion was no longing peering into the enigmatic future, and any inquiries he made now would certainly go unanswered. For his part Voltain reluctantly conceded to hold her close as she labored for breath, impatiently waiting for her to return to a more lucid state of mind.

"Know any place like that?" Illyria asked at length, sitting back on her heels and dragging in a great shuddering breath as she wiped a cold sweat off her glistening brow.

Voltain considered what she had said quite carefully, but to no avail – he simply wasn't familiar enough with the geography of High Imaskar, for he'd never had ample reason to be. In his studies he'd learned that the kingdom of his ancestors had been vast and their rule had been uncontested across Faerun; at the height of Imaskar's power many nations had been under its command, and these lands had been scattered throughout the continent. In order to even narrow down the search for the place Illyria had so vaguely described in her fatespinner vision he would need access to as many historical tomes as he could manage to get his hands on, and the only way to do that would be to circumvent the deposed High Lord Planner Illis Khendarhine. Voltain hardly relished the opportunity to confront the man yet again, for he was stubborn and enjoyed the comforts his station provided far too much to willingly offer any help; Illis had long been corrupted by the power he had been given, and Voltain suspected the man would sooner die than provide aid to such an endeavor – especially one that had even the fraction of a chance of inadvertently leading Voltain to the Fourth _Imaskarcana_.

"I have no doubt that I could ascertain the location given time and research," said the Lord Artificer at last, rising gracefully to his feet and meticulously dusting a speck of dirt from the front of his robes. "In the meantime, I must insist that you keep me well informed of all that you divine from this point forward. It seems that your visions are guiding me closer to my ultimate goals, and any shred of information, however ambiguous, would undoubtedly prove vital to my success." Illyria was looking him up and down with mounting interest blossoming in her deep blue eyes, toying with a lock of her unkempt auburn hair in a way that suggested she had hardly digested a single word he'd said, prompting Voltain to gnash his teeth together in frustration and snarl, "_What_, Illyria?!"

"The Sixth _Imaskarcana_," she pointed out loftily, tittering most annoyingly into the back of one pale hand. "You don't have it, do you?"

Voltain glowered back at her, momentarily considering ending her wretched life with a single word of unspeakable power, but at the last instant he managed to refrain – her fatespinner abilities were simply too invaluable to his cause, no matter how difficult it was for him to abide her presence. Instead he knelt back down until he was nose to nose with her, stunning her into silence with the unbridled wrath simmering in his eyes, and growled, "It's only a matter of time – the Princes of Shade cannot hope to stand against me for long."

Hardly fazed by this show of bravado Illyria reached out and tapped her index finger playfully upon the tip of the Lord Artificer's nose with a laughing reply of "Of course they can't!". Then with a gentle flutter of her black wings Illyria regained her feet and put Voltain at her back as she exited, a smug smile of hard-won victory spreading across her lurid pink lips as she went.

For the moment, it seemed, her unwavering allegiance to her lover Seventh Prince Dethud had remained undetected, and she fully intended to keep it that way for as long as the fates would allow.

Phendrana resisted the urge to shift his weight from one foot to the other for perhaps the eighth time since he had reached the end of his testimony, scarcely daring to look High Prince Telamont in the eye while such a tense silence stretched on with no end in sight. The Most High had listened to the mindmaster's confession with rapt interest and a carefully neutral expression, but he had yet to speak a single word and with each passing moment Phendrana's sense of dreadful anticipation continued to mount until he felt certain the suspense would surely drive him to insanity. Against his better judgment he chanced a glance up, but the calculating coolness in the High Prince's eyes was so terrifying that the doppelganger cast his gaze back to the ground immediately; indeed, he was certain he would have long since died of fright had Third Prince Lamorak not remained like a stoic sentinel at his side, silently imparting his courage.

When he could stand the horrible ringing silence no longer Phendrana opened his mouth to stammer out an apology, but his train of thought was effectively derailed by the voice of Hadrhune. _Be silent,_ the seneschal overrode him. _He is testing you._

_Testing me?_ Phendrana echoed nervously, and the derision dripping from every word of Hadrhune's reply was impossible to miss.

Testing your patience. He knows your heart, for the shadows that bind you are the same shadows that once bound Twelfth Prince Brennus, and that shadow essence was plucked from the High Prince's own shadow orb centuries ago. He can feel your guilt and your uncertainty. He is letting you stew in your own misery before he addresses you. Do not speak – it will be over soon, and you will be far better for it.

Even as Hadrhune concluded his explanation Phendrana's eyes unwillingly flitted up to the High Prince's face yet again, catching a glimpse of the faintest of nostalgic smiles – had he heard Hadrhune's voice within the doppelganger's mind and taken some measure of comfort in it? Rising from his majestic throne Telamont descended to stand before him, those rich platinum eyes searching. "I would like very much to speak with Hadrhune," he instructed, and of course Phendrana hastened to obey; in an eye-blink the doppelganger's natural form vanished as he took on the likeness of the departed shadow sorcerer Hadrhune, and Phendrana marveled at the seamlessness of the transition, a sure sign that the seneschal was at last beginning to accept their unorthodox partnership.

A wide smile spread across the High Prince's face, ceremonial fangs glistening in the murky light of the violet candles surrounding the dais upon which sat the monarch's throne; reaching out he gently cupped Hadrhune's face between his hands and bent slightly at the waist, pressing his lips gently upon the seneschal's brow in a gesture of goodwill and greeting. "Hadrhune… it is a supreme relief and pleasure to find you among us once again, no matter the circumstances surrounding your return."

Taking a smooth step backward Hadrhune dipped down to a knee at his sovereign's feet, and the sense of purpose and fierce loyalty Phendrana felt emanating from the seneschal's psyche nearly brought tears to the doppelganger's eyes. "Not so great a pleasure as it is for me to find myself in your presence again, Most High, if I may be so bold," Hadrhune responded with great sincerity, and if possible Telamont's smile broadened even further.

"For your selfless sacrifice in defense of the princess, and for all that you accomplished in the name of the City of Shade, I wish to inform you that you have post-humorously been declared a Champion of Thultanthar." Hadrhune glanced up in surprise to find the Most High regarding him proudly, and though he opened his mouth to stammer out his thanks the words stuck in his throat. "And now that you are among us again I will recreate your darkstaff for you to use. It has always suited you."

"Gracious Lord," Hadrhune muttered, truly humbled by this display, "your generosity astounds me. I could never hope to repay such kindness."

Telamont ushered his favored emissary back to his feet, clapping him fondly on the shoulder. "Your continued loyalty and devotion will be thanks enough until I determine a way for you to better serve my agenda. Since you are now bound to Phendrana I must be mindful of the tasks I set either of you – where one goes, the other must surely follow."

"Yes," the seneschal agreed, with a hint of sullenness that Phendrana was certain their sovereign did not overlook.

"I will send a servant along to deliver your staff when I have fashioned it – it will not take long." The grin at last faded from the High Prince's face and his eyes hardened as a hint of their previous joviality fled from them. "For now, I must ask that you allow me to speak with Phendrana. There is much that he and I must discuss." As an afterthought Telamont shifted to regard Lamorak, who remained rooted firmly beside Hadrhune though it could not be clearer that he was anxiously awaiting Phendrana's return. "Lamorak, please stay. I would hear your testimony in full."

The Third Prince declined his head a fraction, a gesture of complete compliance and respect; at his side the figure of Hadrhune blurred and reformed as Phendrana regained control of the body they now shared, and for his part the doppelganger was careful to cast his inquisitive gaze to the ground rather than dare looking his sovereign in the eye. The High Prince was pleased to see Hadrhune returned to them, there was no denying that much, but how he would react to the knowledge that Phendrana had been secretly harboring the seneschal within his mind like a fugitive for months now was another matter entirely.

The silence returned to the audience hall with glacial totality, but Telamont was quick to address the issue. "And you have been keeping guard over Hadrhune's psyche since the night of the wedding?"

"I have." There was no bravery in Phendrana's voice now, only trepidation. Lamorak tensed with sudden distress at his side.

"Why?" asked the Most High, sounding intensely introspective, and the mindmaster dared to look up to find his sovereign gazing back at him with curious acceptance.

"Primarily because I have not been in my right mind," Phendrana confessed. "We are coexisting now, but this has been the case only recently – when I first assimilated Hadrhune, he was wholly opposed to the union. To say that he yearned for death is an understatement. He desired it with every fiber of his being, and I felt it more acutely with every passing moment. His despair clouded my judgment – I daresay I was beyond rational thought."

He could feel the High Prince's influence probing at each individual crevice of his mind, seeking a more comprehensive answer, and Phendrana knew better than to put up mental defenses against the intrusion.

"But there is another reason," Telamont concluded at length.

"Yes," Phendrana admitted. "I was afraid. I feared the consequences that might befall me for acting so rashly. There was no time seek permission for my choice – to do so would have been to lose Hadrhune's psyche for all time, and I knew above all else that I must save him… I cannot tell you why."

"Normally I would punish you for keeping so monumental a secret from me." Telamont turned his head minutely to one side to regard Lamorak, who was watching the proceedings silently but with a pinched look on his face that Phendrana could not begin to interpret. "Lamorak, do you believe Phendrana should be punished?"

Lamorak straightened and squared his shoulders, resigned to his sovereign's sure wrath. "No, Most High, I do not."

Telamont readjusted his stance to face the Third Prince squarely; behind his back Phendrana's eyes widened and he regarded Lamorak with alarm, but the Determinist Prime determinedly avoided his gaze.

"Intriguing," observed the High Prince, though it was clear by his tone that he was not at all surprised by Lamorak's opinion. "Would you care to explain the logic behind your decision?"

"There is little to explain, Most High. I simply believe that Phendrana has suffered quite enough."

"Do you?" prompted the High Prince, and behind him Phendrana stood stock still and momentarily forgot to breathe.

"I think it is important to take into account all the misfortunes that have befallen Phendrana in the past year," Lamorak elaborated, careful to keep his eyes fixed upon his sovereign's but looking increasingly more uncomfortable with each moment that passed. "He was made a shade against his will and has been made to struggle with the side effects of that transformation every day, a trial that I'm sure we can agree has caused him no small amount of pain and tribulation. He had to watch Hadrhune die, and in doing so found himself subjected to an impossible choice. He has fought daily to contain Hadrhune's rebelling psyche, a phenomenon that has surely weakened his will, his mental facilities, and made him question the decision he made many times over. And he lost someone he truly loved, the agony of which I am certain he will suffer until the end of his days. Phendrana was faced with a choice and so he chose – search his thoughts, if you will, and you will find his decision was not one fueled by malice or malcontent, but a desire to do good. So yes, I believe that he has suffered enough at this point, but more than that I believe that to punish him for his good intentions would be counter-productive. That quality is one of the many attributes that first made you pursue Phendrana in the first place – he should be praised for upholding such a trait in the face of great adversity, not reprimanded." Having voiced his opinion Lamorak at last cast his gaze to the floor, finishing, "However this is merely my opinion, and I am but your humble servant."

The Most High contemplated all he had heard as Lamorak tapered off into an uneasy silence, his eyes fixed upon Lamorak's bent frame partly vacant as he contemplated each word with great care; for his part Phendrana was speechless, and thus did not come to the Third Prince's aid. Ever the opportunist, it was uncharacteristic of Lamorak to pledge his support to anyone if there was even the slightest hint that they may not entertain the High Prince's good graces – that he was standing before their sovereign now insisting so emphatically that Phendrana should be spared was unprecedented. Watching Lamorak with a kind of soulful gratitude in his eyes Phendrana felt his chest clench with a swell of sudden emotion the likes of which he had not felt since before Twelfth Prince Brennus had fallen so suddenly and unceremoniously from the High Prince's favor, and not for the first time he wondered at the implications of this as Telamont at last began to speak.

"I find you much changed, Lamorak." There was no accusation in the High Prince's voice, only simple observation. Lamorak lifted his head a fraction, his brow creased in thought.

"Yes, Most High." There was little point in attempting to deny as much, in Lamorak's opinion.

Telamont's expression was carefully neutral – for Phendrana, who was depending on some outward display of emotion to determine the course this conversation was taking, this was maddening to observe. "You recall, I trust, why Brennus fell from my favor. He allowed his emotions to cloud his judgment. He blatantly disregarded a sacred tradition and made crucial snap decisions based solely upon his feelings. He began to consider his own private agenda to be of greater import than the affairs of Thultanthar."

Lamorak's jaw was set with solemn rigidity but his eyes were oddly defiant – still, his response was as carefully measured as always. "I have not forgotten."

The High Prince reached out toward his son – Phendrana tensed automatically – and settled one hand companionably upon Lamorak's shoulder, prompting the Determinist Prime to look him in the eye. Their sovereign's face was stern but not disapproving, and for the first time since they had arrived in the audience hall the doppelganger dared to hope that both he and Lamorak would escape unscathed. "Your word," he told Lamorak, his face grave with seriousness, "that your first priority is still the translation of the _Imaskarcana_, the defeat of this intruder Voltain Darkydle, and, if at all possible, the safe return of your youngest brother."

"I am loyal to you and your ambitions above all others," Lamorak assured, but then his eyes flitted to Phendrana's and the doppelganger found himself unable to look away despite the very acute sense of discomfort he felt in meeting such an intense gaze, "but I will also stand firm beside those who have proven their loyalty to me, and to you, and to the City of Shade. Phendrana is one such person. He is deserving of our trust."

Turning back the High Prince fixed Phendrana with a deep, soulful gaze that the doppelganger felt keenly in every fiber of his being, and at last a smile of quiet serenity turned the corners of his lips upward as he said, "Yes, I suppose he is." Then he was ascending back to his throne, and Phendrana was breathing what felt like his first real breath in many long minutes; when he had situated himself he regarded them both with a more businesslike demeanor, though thankfully now the tension had eased fully from the audience chamber. "There will be no punishment, Phendrana, and for my part allow me to express my sincerest gratitude that you have brought Hadrhune back to us. I am truly sorry that abiding his presence has been such a hardship for you, and I can only hope that from this point forward he will consent to be more open-minded and accepting of your partnership. I do believe that you assimilated him solely out of the desire to do good, as Lamorak has so passionately advocated to me, and though he may be incapable of displaying any gratitude for your selfless actions now I pray that he will do so in time.

"Now, let us talk of this Voltain Darkydle." The mood in the chamber shifted yet again, and the anger their sovereign felt at the unprovoked attack on one of his sons was suddenly a palpable emotion that pressed in around them from all sides. "You are certain he is of the Deep Imaskari, Lamorak?"

"Indisputably," the Third Prince explained, his voice taking on the clinical quality it so often did when he was presenting a challenge he had yet to best or a situation he was particularly enthralled with. "He claimed to be their Lord Artificer, and he wielded one of the _Imaskarcana_ against me."

Telamont stroked his chin thoughtfully with one hand as he considered this. "It is clear that he admitted himself to apprehend the volume that you are studying, but how could he have known it was in your possession? None among us knows the location of their underground city, or would have any means or reason to contact them."

Lamorak was similarly stymied. "I have considered that perhaps the tomes are attuned to one another in some way – that is to say, perhaps with enough study and a deeper understanding of the _Imaskarcana_ perhaps one becomes capable of discerning the locations of the other volumes." He paused momentarily, considering, before adding somewhat ashamedly, "It was clear from the outset that he was far better versed in the book's magics than I am."

"Hadrhune," the High Prince called, pleased at the seamless transformation that brought the seneschal standing before him in the blink of an eye. "Lamorak claims that you spoke Roushoum even despite a lack of any formal training, and that you were able to cast a spell strong enough to drive the Lord Artificer away. He also informed me that just before you wielded the _Imaskarcana_ you asked Brennus for aid. Can you elaborate?"

Hadrhune's forehead creased into a frown. "It is difficult to describe – I cannot say that I heard the words within my mind, more that suddenly they were planted there as though I had known them all along. Of course, such a notion is foolish... I have neither read nor spoken Roushoum before, and have no prior knowledge of the language. I can only assume that wherever Prince Brennus is, he heard my plea and responded accordingly. It cannot be coincidence that I cast such a spell after calling him by name."

"I agree with you," said Telamont reassuringly, a wordless request that Lamorak bring him the book; the Third Prince ascended to the throne at once and handed it over, and with reverent eyes and careful fingertips the High Prince laid the _Imaskarcana _open across his lap and slowly began rifling through its unusual vellum and crystal pages. When he arrived at the single page near the back of the tome that resembled paper-thin black quartz upon which Brennus's unseen hand was continually inscribing odd symbols in his familiar tidy manuscript, he stopped short and looked up at Lamorak with questions in his eyes. "Did you know that he was trying to communicate with you?"

Lamorak nodded. "Yes, but the words vanish quickly – far quicker than I have learned to translate them, given my limited understanding of the language."

At Phendrana's silent mental prompting Hadrhune ascended the stairs to where their sovereign sat pondering the black page; sure enough each golden word shimmered upon the surface for a moment or two but then faded into the background, to be replaced by more of the same elegant prose. The Most High stroked his hand down the page once longingly, as though in a silent reassurance to his son that he was here, and all was forgiven.

"I know Roushoum when I see it, but I never had cause to become proficient in the language," Telamont told them. "High Imaskar was destroyed before Thultanthar was founded, and I was but a child. The Netherese Imperium was eager to take up the mantle of masters of the arcane, and as a fledgling empire we had little time to devote to the misfortunes of other races, so the passing of the Imaskari occurred largely beneath the notice of the then Lords of Netheril. Queen Maedra worked tirelessly for decades compiling all she knew of the language and the Imaskari civilization into those journals – continue your study, Lamorak, for that is where you will find the answers. When you become fluent in the language you will be able to translate Brennus's writings, which you should consider a higher priority even then besting Voltain Darkydle. Perhaps he has already found a way to escape from the book but he needs the assistance of someone from the outside world? We will not know without conducting further research."

Lamorak accepted the _Imaskarcana_ and tucked it protectively beneath his arm. "I will not fail you."

"Phendrana." The High Prince addressed the doppelganger now, pleased when he turned his head a fraction to find that the mindmaster had already returned to his natural form upon being called. Briefly Phendrana despaired, certain he was about to be forbidden from interacting any further with Lamorak, but the scolding he anticipated never came. "Continue to aid Lamorak in any way that you can be of use to him – that is how best you can assist me now. You have been a great help to him thus far and I daresay the two of you will continue to accomplish much together."

"Of course," Phendrana vowed, and sensing that their audience with the High Prince was at an end he descended the stairs with Lamorak at his side and pondered all that had been said. Though he was certain the crux of their meeting was to address the coming of the Lord Artificer as well as the continued existence of Hadrhune, Phendrana couldn't help wondering – in a roundabout way, had the High Prince just given Lamorak permission to pursue him in a private forum?

Glancing sidelong at the Third Prince, Phendrana felt certain that the smug grin of victory he wore could serve as a clear enough answer.

The rite was nearly complete, a powerful summoning ritual that would raise a long-dead wizard whom Dethud was certain could answer a great deal of questions he had been pondering for quite some time, when he felt an unmistakable disturbance in the air around him; involuntarily he cracked an eye open, still reciting carefully, but his concentration was effectively derailed when he noticed Illyria perched on the edge of an alchemy table on the other end of the room. At the sight of her his tongue tripped over a syllable, and then another, and the crackle of summoning energy that had been whipping through his necromancy chamber like a gale suddenly withered and died as the spell failed. Furious at the gloaming's interruption Dethud threw his hands in the air and stalked across the room to where she sat, raving all the while. "Damn you to the Abyss, Illryria! What are you doing here?! Have I not made it perfectly clear that you are not to admit yourself unannounced into this place?! Do you understand that if any of my brothers became wise to your presence here that it would mean the end of us both?!"

For the first time in Dethud's recollection Illyria actually refused to meet his gaze; she continued to twist a lock of her auburn hair around her index finger while she gnawed on her poorly-painted bottom lip, eyes fixed deliberately upon the floor. Dethud thought he might go mad waiting for her to speak.

"I got somethin' to tell you," she whispered at last, and the tremor of real fear in her voice effectively put an end to Dethud's swiftly-mounting fury.

"What is it?" the necromancer pressed, his voice exceedingly gentle now at the prospect of wringing even the smallest morsel of information from the naïve little gloaming, and when Illyria continued to chew anxiously upon her bottom lip without responding Dethud reached out a hand and grasped her chin gently, tilting her head back with the barest insinuation of pressure and wordlessly convincing her to look him in the eye. Far from holding their typical sensual deviousness those expressive sapphire eyes of hers appeared deeply troubled, and she seemed reluctant to hold his gaze for long. This was not the norm – Historically Illyria leapt at any opportunity to find herself in his presence, and fawned pathetically over him when he allowed her to visit.

Was it something she had Seen?

"Illyria," Dethud breathed, allowing his breath to waft over her pale cheeks, certain that even that insignificant gesture would convince her to tell all, but her facial expression did not change – she gazed back at him, some unknown terror fighting to break through her façade of would-be calm. "That's it, isn't it? You've Seen something?"

Reluctantly she nodded, her eyes too wide in her cherubic face, her fingers curling like the claws of an animal into the unkempt strands of her hair. "I… I had the vision when I was with Volt… so he knows everything."

It took every ounce of self control Dethud possessed not to physically strike her, so enraged was he by this news. With their adversary constantly one step ahead of them, how could they ever hope to gain the upper hand? Running a hand down his face in abject frustration the Seventh Prince growled, "Never mind that… just tell me all that you told him."

"But he didn't know what it meant!" Illyria exclaimed jubilantly, her face momentarily lighting up with bliss at the thought of providing the Seventh Prince so crucial a detail. "So maybe we can beat him to it!"

"Possibly," Dethud mused, and dropping to his knees he knelt nose to nose with the odd little gloaming, adding, "Tell me all, and we will attempt to decipher it together. Every second we deliberate may give us the advantage."

Illyria nodded and dutifully recanted every word. "A desert wasteland. A lost kingdom hidden in the spur of a golden mountain. Ruins beneath the sand, lost in some ancient cataclysm, guarded by wicked creatures and deadly, long-forgotten magic. It is here that you will unearth the Fourth _Imaskarcana_, long believed to be forever lost in the ravages of time and the unforgiving elements of the desert. It is here, in the skies above the wreckage, where you will do battle with Prince Lamorak of Shade, and claim his tome for your own."

It was as though Dethud had plunged headlong into a pool of the iciest water, so shaken was he by the gloaming's chilling prophecy – yet another _Imaskarcana_ was about to resurface? But even more troubling than that – had Illyria actually glimpsed the downfall of Third Prince Lamorak? The thought sent him pacing throughout the dimly-lit necromancy chamber, wringing his hands all the while, oblivious to Illyria's haunted gaze following his every step.

"How often do your prophecies come true?" he questioned sharply, rounding on her with blazing eyes. "Have they ever been known to fail?"

Illyria sank to the ground, despaired, cradling her face in her childlike hands and moaning aloud. Even through the thick curtain of her hair, there was no mistaking her response: "Never. Not even once. They always come true, and exactly as I foretell them, but usually they're open to interpretation – a lot of the time the true meaning is misconstrued or misunderstood, and the real outcome isn't clear until it comes to pass. Like… for example… this guy Prince Lamorak, he's your brother, right?" Dethud nodded in the affirmative, so she continued. "Well, my vision makes it clear that he and Volt are gonna battle, but it's purposely vague on the outcome. I'm guessing from your reaction that you're assuming the worst, like maybe you think your brother's gonna _die_, but the vision didn't specify that, so that might not be right. They're gonna fight, sure, and it sounds like Volt wins, but maybe your brother gives up the book and retreats, or something."

She had a point, Dethud reasoned, but there was a knot of foreboding in the pit of his stomach that made him wonder if he was foolish to be so optimistic. "What do you know of this place?" he pressed, anxious to focus on any detail of the prophecy that didn't insinuate some awful end surely awaited his brother."The desert, the kingdom, the ruins in the sand?"

The gloaming's shoulders bobbed in a kind of dejected, helpless shrug. "I'm not exactly an expert in Imaskar history… that's kind of before my time, you know."

He supposed she was right to assume the place from her vision had ties to ancient Imaskar, but he was hardly an authority in the matter, and hadn't a clue how to even begin to pinpoint the resting place of the Fourth _Imaskarcana_. For the first time he found himself truly considering divulging all that he knew to the High Prince, but he knew it was far too late to do so now. Had he confessed all from the outset he would have faced his sovereign's displeasure for entertaining the company of a capricious creature such as Illyria, and he certainly would have been reprimanded for allowing her to enter the enclave whenever she pleased, but now he would surely be punished for keeping his silence at such a crucial juncture. Voltain's efforts might have been altogether thwarted if Dethud had come forward before, but now he stood only to lose, and he had seen firsthand just how far a Prince of Shade could fall when not buoyed along by the Most High's favor.

"Has this… Volt… grown wise to our partnership?" Dethud inquired at length, berating himself all the while.

Illyria shook her head most emphatically, auburn curls bouncing. "He can't have… I'm sure I'd be dead now otherwise." Her next remark came as no surprise to Dethud, who had been somewhat anticipating it all along. "I… I came here to ask for your protection."

"My protection?" the Seventh Prince echoed, and though he tried to reign it in a modicum of the displeasure he felt seeped into his tone.

Illyria's eyes widened at the hostility in his voice – it was clear she had been expecting amnesty, or at the very least kindness, from her sometimes-lover. "Well, yeah!" she exclaimed gracelessly. "When he finds out I've been feeding you information behind his back – "

"And has he already discovered as much?" Dethud overrode her smoothly.

"No, but – "

"Then I see no reason why we should act so rashly. At present, you aren't in any danger." Dethud put his back to her and feigned sudden interest in a shelf of potions and poisons, keenly aware of her imploring gaze fixed morosely upon him, for he could somehow feel the weight of it like a tangible thing. "At any rate, surely you can see the predicament that I would find myself in were I to offer you such promises. The High Prince knows nothing of your existence, Illyria, and I cannot say he would consider your fatespinning abilities much more than a parlor trick. Then I would have to explain your presence here, and the punishment would be severe. You are an outsider here, and you are trespassing without permission. My sovereign has sentenced such offenses harshly in the past, and has killed for less."

He had been prepared for one of Illyria's characteristic tantrums, all fake tears and stamping feet, but that was not the reaction he received; quite the contrary she merely stared back at him with a wisdom beyond her years, and in that moment Dethud had never been more unnerved by another person in his hundreds of years of life. With a little shudder of her great black wings she regained her feet and made a show of dusting off her clothes, though they appeared as immaculate as they'd been upon her arrival, and said, "You know, you and Volt are more alike than you realize. You both demand that I keep you up to speed on what I've Seen, but neither of you ever thanks me for my help or even treats me like a friend, or even an acquaintance. So maybe I'll quit helping out, and just sit back and see how far you both get without me." Her voice dropped somewhat menacingly then, and Dethud felt his skin crawl when as she finished, "Remember this moment when your brother dies, my sweet prince – the moment when you could have saved him, and didn't."

Then with a gentle flutter of her wings the gloaming vanished; Dethud opened his mouth, her name upon his lips, but the word seemed to freeze within the too-cold chamber and there followed only silence.


	10. Chapter Ten - Running Out of Time

Gromph Baenre stood on the wide balcony at the highest tower of Sorcere, Andzrel Baenre at his left and Mourntrin Auvryndar to his right, and watched with abject hatred in his eyes as House Melarn burned. He hated the dark elf priestesses of Melarn, who surely weren't as devoted to the Spider Queen as they wanted everyone to believe if they hadn't the divine strength to thwart their attackers. He hated his sister Quenthel, who among the ruling council was the only one who could order the other houses to mobilize as one and turn the tide of the war, for refusing to act. But most of all he hated the Princes of Shade for daring to strike against Menzoberranzan so brazenly, as though they feared the consequences of their actions not at all.

If the Archmage of Sorcere had his way, he would give the sons of Lord Shadow something to fear before long.

"Andzrel," he spoke at last, his tone belying his barely-contained fury, "were you permitted to call upon my sister?"

"No, Archmage – regrettably, her handmaidens refused to admit me. She was communing with the Spider Queen, seeking guidance."

"A waste of time," spat Gromph. "The next course of action is known to her already. Surely the Spider Queen will impart as much."

Mourn stirred from where he stood, pointing to the south. "Archmage, if you will…"

Gromph's eyes snapped to the right and followed the trajectory of the assassin's outstretched arm, to a point at the opposite spur of Qu'ellarz'orl where a new set of fiery pinpricks were sparking to life all along the southern slope of the vast chamber. The three of them watched in silence as the flames leapt ever higher, signaling the swift and unceremonious end of yet another drow house of the quickly-dwindling ruling council.

"Fey-Branche," murmured Andzrel beneath his breath, though Gromph hadn't asked and Mourn, formerly of the city of Ched Nasad, hardly cared. "The Princes of Shade are growing bolder."

"And why shouldn't they?" observed Mourn with a sigh of disdain. "As long as the Matron Mothers refuse to align their houses in unified opposition, these invaders will continue to slaughter all those who cross their path. Only the combined might of Menzoberranzan can stand against them. At this rate – "

"Enough," barked Gromph, and Mourn immediately fell silent; the Archmage turned slowly to face him, eyes drawn, words thoughtful. "This is not why I summoned you here, son of Auvryndar. You know what I am asking."

Mourn squared his shoulders and lifted his chin a fraction in a show of defiant bravery. "Yes, Archmage. I am aware of the dangers I will face. I am not afraid."

"Then you are a fool," Gromph pointed out bluntly, and though Mourn's eyes flashed with anger he did well not to respond in haste. "Look around you – we stand witness to the destruction the Princes of Shade are capable of wrecking upon an entire city. If you are caught, a trespasser and a traitor alone in their domain, what do you think will happen to you?"

"No worse than what Lim Tal'eyve must currently endure," Mourn shot back determinedly, and Gromph nodded along as though pleased. Reaching within the sleeve of his robes he produced a thin obsidian wand, and Mourn stiffened involuntarily but forced himself to relax almost as quickly.

"You must go now, for the longer you remain here the higher the possibility that Quenthel will seek you out and hold you accountable for Quartana's failures." The wand tip dipped a fraction as a warning crept into Gromph's eyes. "Be advised that the moment you are through the portal, it will close – if Quenthel discovers that I have aided you in any way she will have my head, and I suspect she will have need of me when the Princes of Shade find their way to House Baenre's doorstep. Know that from this point forward you are on your own – you will have no accomplices, and you will be responsible for securing your own escape. Do you still wish to go?"

Despite the dire nature of the task laid out before him, Mourn found himself nodding fervently. "Yes, of course, Archmage. The Anointed Blade of the Jaezred Chaulssin does not belong in a prison. If it is within my power to free him, rest assured that it will be done."

"Very well." Gromph walked the delicate wand through an intricate pattern, leaving a trail of glimmering silver sparks in the air as he worked; the shining residue solidified into a definite shape before bursting to life in the form of an ethereal, opalescent door, on the other side of which Mourn was certain he recognized the lavish furnishings of Lim Tal'eyve's room within Villa Cambria, former residence of the deceased seneschal Hadrhune.

"The dungeons are located in the subterranean levels of the palace," Gromph explained impatiently, "however I am unable to transport you directly there. The security enchantments surrounding the castle are significantly more powerful than those encompassing the enclave – given time I am certain I could bypass them, but time is a luxury we no longer have. You must find your own way into the palace, and locate Lim Tal'eyve yourself. This is all the assistance I am able to provide."

Mourn stepped right up to the shimmering doorway, his skin a kind of pearly-gray as he basked in the otherworldly white light. "When I return, I will find a way to repay you."

The Archmage simply scowled. "Just get Lim away from High Prince Telamont, and keep him out of sight of my sister. I do not agree with this ludicrous campaign that the Jaezred Chaulssin has embarked upon, but if Lim possesses the power to cast these invaders out of our city as you say I will give him all the support I can. And if he somehow manages to depose my sister on the way…"

The last piece of the puzzle clicked into place for Mourn then, who had wondered why Gromph Baenre, of all people, was so willing to back such a suicidal crusade. The reality of the situation was suddenly clear – the Archmage would never do something so reckless unless he stood to gain, and the abrupt downfall of Matron Mother Quenthel Baenre would all but secure Gromph's supremacy within the strongest house of Menzoberranzan. Likely when all was said and done he would be the single most formidable dark elf in the entire city, arguably the whole of the Underdark. And if the entire plan went sour and Mourn and Lim died horrific deaths at the hands of the Shadow Masters of Thultanthar, Gromph could simply deny his involvement and avoid the consequences entirely – after all, who would be left to protest otherwise, and who would dare to question his word?

"Time is short," Gromph reiterated crossly, intruding upon Mourn's musings. "Will you go?"

"With all speed," Mourn agreed, and without another moment's hesitation he stepped through the conjured white doorway and vanished before their eyes; indeed, barely a second passed before Gromph dismissed the dimensional door with a flick of his wand, and it was clear from his uninterested expression that he cared little for Mourn's well being.

Gromph's eyes fell upon his nephew Andzrel, who had stood by and observed the proceedings without displaying the slightest hint of protest. "You have my thanks yet again for escorting Mourn here, but now your part in this plot is done. Return at once to your post in the Baenre compound and obey my sister's commands to the letter – to do otherwise would be to invite her suspicion, and that is something we must avoid at all costs. Should I have need of you again I will find a way to call upon you, and I trust you will respond with the timeliness and discretion that I have come to expect from you."

The weapons master bowed low, the weight of his sheathed longsword almost too much to bear as he considered all there was left to do. "I will do all I can to assure you that your faith in me is not misplaced, Archmage."

"Very good," acknowledged Gromph, putting his back to Andzrel and approaching the balcony's guardrail yet again as the flames engulfing House Fey-Branche leapt ever higher and swallowed the whole of the compound. "As you were."

Andzrel Baenre marched for the door, carefully formulating his alibi should his whereabouts be questioned when he returned, and had almost reached the exit when his clever uncle called out to him a parting word.

"And Andzrel? If word of what has occurred here reaches my sister's ears… I'll know well enough who to blame."

It was but a single step that delivered Mourn to Thultanthar, fully thousands of miles away from the relatively safe tunnels of the Underdark to the shadow-swathed city in the sand-choked skies above the Anauroch Desert. Glancing over his shoulder the assassin wasn't at all surprised to find that the doorway had already dissolved, a resounding testament to the truth of Gromph's words – he was alone here, veritably a rabbit lost in a den of ravenous wolves, but he had the element of surprise on his side and he liked his odds in any situation where he held that particular advantage. He'd spent nigh on twenty-four hours within the City of Shade during his last fateful sojourn to that place, so he knew well enough where the Palace Most High stood in relation to Villa Cambria, but how to traverse the distance undetected? There were hostile eyes around every corner, and the stakes were far too great for him to fail.

A sudden shrill voice emitted from not far behind him, so unexpected that he nearly leapt out of his own skin at the sound. "Mourntrin Auvryndar, you are nine minutes late! How dare you make me wait on you!"

With well-honed reflexes Mourn spun to face his attacker, one arm sweeping across defensively in an attempt to stave off any incoming attacks and the other hand drawing his trusted starmetal dagger from the hidden sheath nestled against the small of his back, but when his eyes fell upon the speaker he nearly dropped his weapon. There, seated upon the extreme edge of Lim Tal'eyve's meticulously-made bed, clad in a girlish blue silk dress and white stiletto heels with a shock of auburn hair cascading down her slender shoulders and an impressive set of wings black as a raven's feathers fanned gracelessly out behind her, sat the curious little gloaming who had somehow miraculously saved his life in the Underdark months before! As stunned as he was Mourn remembered almost at once that stealth was imperative to the success of his current mission, and closing the distance between them he tucked his dagger back into its sheath and pressed a finger to his lips in a wordless plea for caution; the petite winged creature scoffed and waved one hand impatiently, rolling her eyes all the while.

"Oh, please," she huffed, crossing her legs at the ankle languidly and smoothing a stray crease out of her almost-sheer dress. "No one's going to hear us and no one's going to walk in here any time soon. I cast a little spell when I got here and the entire household is taking a teensy nap – how else would you ever have gotten out of here?"

Mourn cocked his head to one side, admittedly more perplexed than he'd ever been. "How did you know I'd be here?"

She tapped the tip of one index finger to her temple, as though that should explain things well enough. "Saw it in advance – I was already here, you know, having a not-so-pleasant chat with an on-again off-again flame of mine – _ugh, _men_, I swear!_ – and I was about to head back to Deep Imaskar when I Saw you just walk in here like you owned the place. Figured I ought to stick around or this would wind up just like the last time we crossed paths." She paused long enough to wink one cerulean eye in his direction, the corner of her poorly-painted mouth crooking upward in a devious little smirk when she finished, "Honestly, you're helpless without me, you know?"

Given that the first and only time their paths had ever crossed was when he had nearly died during a desperate attempt to escape Deep Imaskar with the Sixth _Imaskarcana_ in tow, Mourn thought it best not to try and dispute that fact. "I never got the opportunity to thank you for your timely intervention that day," Mourn began solemnly, every word ringing with sincerity and gratitude. "Had you not concealed me from those Imaskari I would most certainly have been dragged back to their city and tortured yet again – or worse, killed before I could complete my mission. I owe you much - though I am not certain how I might possibly repay, or why you interfered on my behalf in the first place."

She laughed at that, a sickeningly feminine sound that was nonetheless heartening to him, for he knew that he had found an ally in a place where he had expected to find only foes. "I guess you could say interfering is kind of my life's work," she answered vaguely, and at last she uncurled from her spot on the bed and took her feet – even clad in her too-tall heels the top of her head only reached Mourn's sternum, and he was by no means tall in stature for a dark elf. "Listen, can we go? The housekeeping staff will wake up eventually, and even with my spells getting from here to the palace dungeon isn't gonna be a cakewalk."

Mourn balked at that. "You're helping me? But why?"

Tossing her hair playfully over her shoulder she danced past him with the grace of a ballerina, and he caught the curious aroma of caramel and honey and other delectably sweet things on her wings as they beat softly at the air. "Well, for one, I like you. You're loyal, and in my line of work that's pretty rare. The odds are stacked against you, and it's always fun to root for the underdog. But mostly I'm helping you because it'll make a couple of guys I know really mad in the not-so-distant future, and that sounds like fun." Pausing at the door she glanced back at him, her deep blue eyes sparkling with mischievous delight, and finished, "You ready?"

The assassin crossed the room to where his unlikely companion stood waiting, reaching one hand out to turn the doorknob, his thoughts in a chaotic whirl. "Who _are_ you?"

She grinned, prominently displaying a childish gap between her two top front teeth; for some reason he couldn't explain, Mourn found this imperfect detail oddly charming. "Name's Illyria. Now, no more questions! We're sort of on a clock here." And as Mourn cracked the door open she slunk under his outstretched arm and into the deserted, eerily-quiet hallway beyond.

They encountered the first of the housekeeping staff as they rounded a corner and headed toward the stairs leading down to the foyer, a plainly-dressed male Shadovar collapsed in the hallway with a stack of freshly-laundered linens strewn about his prone form; Illyria stepped gingerly over the slumbering servant, seemingly unfazed by the sight. "If you knew I'd be here," asked Mourn, still stymied by Illyria's appearance and all that she knew, "do you also know why I've come?"

"'Course I do," she told him with a scoff. "You're trying to spring Lim Tal'eyve out of the dungeons. What is it with you and that guy, anyway? You know he's just using you, right?"

This flippant observation prompted Mourn to roll his eyes. "If he is using me, that is his right. He is the Anointed Blade of the Jaezred Chaulssin, the one who will wield the divine sword consecrated in the sacred pool of Eilistraee's tears and slay the Spider Queen. He is the one who will free the male drow from the subservience and persecution of the matriarchy that has suppressed us for thousands of years. And if the part I play is simply a stepping stone along his road to fulfilling that prophecy, so be it. I believe in the righteousness of our cause."

"I didn't take you for some mindless zealot," Illyria confessed with the hint of a childish whine in her voice, but out of the corner of his eye Mourn was certain he glimpsed a trace of genuine disappointment in her face before she hitched her disinterested mask back into place.

Evidence of whatever spell Illyria had cast was immediately apparent when they reached the entryway. There was another servant unconscious in the receiving parlor, where she had been fluffing pillows stacked upon a chaise lounge; another was barely visible slumped beneath the head of the wide dining room table, where presumably she had been polishing silver, and yet another collapsed against the eastern wall with a feather duster mere inches from his slack fingertips. Mourn couldn't help feeling awed and a little intimidated by such a display of adept sorcery, but Illyria appeared as bored as before as they approached the door that would lead them out of the residence and into the pavilion wherein the houses of all the Princes of Shade were constructed.

Reaching out the gloaming laid her hand gently upon Mourn's cheek, and the instant her fingertips touched his skin he began to feel almost unbearably cold; when she withdrew the sensation subsided, and as he watched with utter fascination Illyria pressed that same hand to her own face and her entire appearance changed before his eyes. She sprouted several feet in height, her wings vanished, her hair grew short and darkened to the color of mahogany, and her girlish dress changed into the simplistic garb of a household servant. Mourn supposed they had just taken on the likenesses of two Shadovar slaves as the result of yet another of Illyria's enchantments, which she confirmed at once by saying, "Okay, these disguises will hold up long enough for us to get into the castle. Just don't bump anybody on the street – direct physical contact will interrupt the illusion." Without waiting for a reply she pushed the door open and led the way into the Circle, and Mourn followed along just as mystified as before.

Though Mourn understood well the need for caution, he simply couldn't stay the burning questions that had resurfaced at the sight of her. "How did you find me that first time, in Deep Imaskar? Why did you save me?"

Fortunately it seemed Illyria didn't mind his continued inquiries. "The same way I find out about everything – I Saw it. I Saw you get captured before it happened, I Saw where you'd be. If I See something, I interfere. It's what I've always done."

"But you don't know anything about me." Mourn had never been one to question good fortune, but he simply couldn't rationalize why someone would risk their own well-being for a complete stranger – no drow he had ever known would do something so selfless, of that he was certain.

Illyria shrugged dismissively as she led the way through the pavilion; Mourn found himself wondering how she knew the way. "Doesn't matter. Fatespinning is a dying art, but it's a critical one. Without me you'd be dead or rotting in some Imaskari prison, Volt would still be just another no-name evocation student, Lim Tal'eyve would never have gotten his greedy hands on the _Imaskarcana_, and Twelfth Prince Brennus would still have a body. See how different everything would be if you didn't have me around? Plus, life would be so boring. Who wants that? Not me."

"What?" Mourn glanced sidelong at his unlikely companion confusedly. "Lim had the book because I gave it to him."

"Yeah, and who gave it to you?" Illyria reminded impatiently, rolling her eyes. "The only reason I helped you find it is because I needed it to wind up in Lim's hands. And trust me, I didn't want things to happen that way, but I knew he'd hand it over to Brennus, and that's where I Saw the book ending up, so – "

Mourn's mind ground to a sudden halt, and he would have interrupted their procession toward the palace had time not been of the utmost importance. "Did you just say… the book was never meant for Lim at all?"

Illyria took her time in responding, for they were now passing through the tall onyx gates encompassing the palace grounds and there were armed shade sentries posted all around the perimeter; when they had cleared the gates unmolested she pitched her voice lower, clearly irritated now. "Of course it wasn't! That greedy, self-absorbed little parasite, one of the wielders of the _Imaskarcana_?! Please – don't make me laugh! Nope, he was a means to an end – that guy wouldn't know what to do with an artifact like that if you gave him an instruction manual. I Saw him giving it to Brennus, and I Saw it consuming Brennus just a few days later. Tragic, but necessary. It had to happen."

"But why could you possibly want the prince out of the way?" Mourn pressed, certain Illyria was alluding to some crucial detail he had yet to become privy to. "Has he wronged you? Was he a threat to the artificer, Voltain Darkydle?"

"Me? No, he doesn't even know me. But I need him. He's the only one who can stop Volt now."

"Stop him?" echoed Mourn incredulously as they neared the grand palace doors. "Isn't Voltain your ally? Aren't you helping him?"

"Look, I can't talk about this – I've already said way too much." For the first time, Illyria appeared genuinely disturbed; for Mourn, this was eerie to behold. "I have to help him for now because he's my best shot at staying alive. But the second Brennus is back – "

"Back? How? You said yourself he's sealed away within the pages of the _Imaskarcana._ Once a person is trapped there, that is where they remain. No one has escaped its magical imprisonment in tens of thousands of years – since those tomes were penned and bound in the strongest, most ancient Imaskari magic."

Illyria was nodding along, her face somewhat dejected, but there was an unquenchable light of thoughtfulness and hope in her eyes yet. "I know all that, but I Saw him. It's a long shot, but there's a chance that he gets out – and when he does, he's gonna be strong enough to put a stop to Volt. I don't want to help you bust Lim out of here, but I have to. It's a stop on the journey toward a desired outcome, if you will." Reaching out she patted him a little condescendingly on the cheek, finishing, "I know this is a lot to take in, but it'll make sense in time. I just hope you and I are both still around to see it."

"See what?" Mourn breathed as they stepped into the great foyer of the Palace Most High.

"Xinlenal," murmured Illyria lovingly, her eyes shining and her voice a purr of unadulterated pleasure. "The promised land."

Though Mourn was dying to know more, their illusory disguises were already beginning to fade; seizing Illyria at the elbow he hauled her behind a suit of armor at the opposite end of the entryway, and crouching at her side he swept both ends of the corridor with wary eyes. "Enough of that for now… do you know where the dungeons are, Illyria?" There were guards, so many guards! The assassin couldn't imagine a scenario that did not end with the pair of them apprehended and thrown into captivity alongside the very man they had come to rescue.

Illyria seemed far less concerned by their predicament, though Mourn supposed she had already glimpsed their success with her curious fatespinning ability and that gave her a certain measure of confidence. She gave an agitated little flutter of her wings and settled back against the wall, her eyes fixed upon an imposing set of double doors at the far west end of the hall. "Yeah, but we gotta wait a sec, so pipe down."

Mourn heeded the gloaming's advice and waited, biting back the multitude of questions he was still frantic to ask. If what Illyria had seen came to pass and the Twelfth Prince somehow escaped his extradimensional imprisonment within the _Imaskarcana_, Lim would be in even greater danger than he currently was – the prince had only come into possession of the book after Lim had subtly convinced him that to attain mastery of it was to be welcomed back into his patron's good graces. If he returned, he would surely exact a fierce revenge indeed upon the conniving Lim Tal'eyve; best if Mourn could spirit the Anointed Blade far away from Thultanthar before then.

A mournful bell tolled from somewhere beyond the palace – the Church of Shar, perhaps? – and Illyria snapped to attention; through the door she had been avidly watching came a host of armored guards, a silent procession that seemed expertly rehearsed. There was no question what they were witnessing, further justified by the way the guards currently on duty began vacating their posts – it was the changing of the guard.

It was all the opportunity they needed.

Illyria seized Mourn's arm just above the elbow with considerable strength for such a diminutive creature, but the dark elf needed no prompting; moving quickly they swept out of the shadow cast by the suit of armor and whisked around the corner while the guards' backs were turned. The door they approached was locked, but Illyria produced a heavy iron key from a thin chain she wore around her slender neck and inserted it in a single smooth motion, and to Mourn's amazement the door cracked open. The gloaming ushered him through ahead of her before slipping in after him, and pulling the door closed behind them they found themselves in the profoundly dark stairwell leading down into the palace dungeons.

It took only a moment for their eyes to adjust to the lightless staircase, for being creatures of the Underdark they were well accustomed to the dark and saw quite well in the infrared spectrum. Illyria hastily tucked the chain down the front of her ill-fitting dress and hurried down, saying, "Now we gotta hurry, I don't know what the security is like down here…"

The pair of them pressed on with as much speed as they dared, inspecting every adjacent corridor as they passed for any signs of pursuit, but each they came across seemed empty; far from setting Mourn's nerves at ease, though, it simply heightened them. If it was so simple just to infiltrate the palace dungeons of Thultanthar, surely Lim would have discovered a way to escape long ago. At the fifth vacant intersection, the drow couldn't help but to make his fears known.

"Something is amiss."

Illyria was nodding along, but seemed distracted and so did not verbally reply; Mourn turned his gaze to where she was looking, and felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. There was a solitary figure standing before a lone occupied cell at the end of the next hall, one clad in a dark shroud and cowl, and though his face wasn't visible from this angle Mourn was certain he could identify that figure – Fourth Prince Aglarel, the High Prince's personal assassin and captain of the guard.

"Okay," Illyria breathed, her voice barely a whisper for fear of being overheard, "I don't know how we're gonna accomplish this with that guy here – he is bad news."

Mourn was fumbling within the folds of his _piwafwi_, one eyebrow raised. "You know him?"

"Kind of." The gloaming's eyes were wide, her face a touch paler than was normal. "He's like us."

"I don't understand."

She set her fearful blue eyes on him. "He's different."

And oddly Mourn needed no further explanation, for somehow he knew precisely what she meant – the Fourth Prince wasn't like his brothers, though Mourn knew not how, but he had reached a similar conclusion in the short time he had spent among them. That knowledge seemed like justification enough for him to withdraw his precious starmetal dagger from a hidden pocket sewn into the inside of his _piwafwi_, and at the sight of the weapon Illyria's eyes grew impossibly wider. "Best to kill him, then, and be done with it," he offered by way of explanation, but Illyria shook her head vigorously.

"You can't kill him!" she hissed, seizing his weapon hand at the wrist as if to stay the blow. "If the Princes of Shade capture Lim again – and I'm not gonna lie, it's a definite possibility – he'll crack under torture and tell them all that _you_ were the one who killed him! You're only putting yourself at risk."

Fleetingly Mourn wondered if Illyria had Seen some version of the future in which just such a scenario came to pass, but he refrained from asking. What did it matter anyway? The gloaming had led him this far and for that he owed her his very life – how could he question her judgment now? Nodding reassuringly he patted the excitable little girl on the shoulder before stepping around her and around the corner, daring to enter the already-occupied corridor, steeling himself for the final obstacle between himself and the man for whom he had risked everything.

As he crept nearer he began to hear the conversation unfolding between the prince and Lim Tal'eyve. "…Only after obtaining the book form you, and I want an explanation."

"Any misfortune that befell Prince Brennus upon taking the book from me is no fault of mine," Lim intoned in a bored voice, and Mourn smirked at his bravado despite the tenseness of the situation. "He requested to study it, so I turned it over. I had not the authority to refuse, as you know."

"What did you tell him to make the book seem so utterly desirable?" Aglarel pressed menacingly. "We have all read his note, lamenting that he ever came into possession of that cursed tome. I am no fool. You convinced him to invest his energies into its contents. You tricked him into unraveling its secrets on your behalf, knowing it wasn't safe to do so yourself."

"You give me far more credit than I deserve," Lim argued amiably with a scoff. "I would never have the audacity to knowingly hoodwink a Prince of Shade! I know my place here all too well."

Mourn had closed half the distance between himself and Aglarel, and the Fourth Prince seemed none the wiser. He was certainly in Lim's line of sight now, but if Lim had glimpsed him in his peripheral vision he did well not to let on; he simply gazed indolently back at the obviously-incensed Aglarel as though the prince was wasting his time. In a rare slip of composure Aglarel slammed both hands against the cell bars with a snarl, saying, "My youngest brother is _gone_ because of you, you damnable cretin! And Shar help me, I will get the truth out of you if it is the last thing I do!"

Lim cocked his head to one side, his expression now genuinely puzzled. "Overt threats, is it? You used to be subtle with your intimidation tactics, Prince, but this is a childish attempt for you." He narrowed his amber eyes, considering. "Is there trouble in paradise? Have you and the lovely Sceptrana quarreled? You will forgive me for saying so, I hope, but you have very obviously spurned her affections for quite some time now, it's no wonder she – "

Aglarel's eyes blazed crimson. "How _dare_ \- !"

It was then that Mourn took full advantage of the prince's single-minded anger, and leapt upon him from behind; locking one arm around Aglarel's throat the drow raised the starmetal dagger, and with commendable swiftness he lashed out before the prince could truly begin to struggle. The hilt of the dagger struck Aglarel squarely in the back of the head with more than enough force to send him slumping forward into the bars – where Lim was waiting with outstretched hands. Seizing the reeling Aglarel at the shoulders Lim dragged him forward with all his might and smashed his forehead into the unyielding bars, and with a sickening crunch the Fourth Prince's eyes fluttered closed as Mourn dropped the now-unconscious Aglarel unceremoniously to the ground, where he lay motionless.

"Mourntrin Auvryndar," said Lim by way of greeting, gazing down at the helpless Aglarel where he had collapsed in a heap, "your timing is impeccable as always."

Mourn bent slightly at the waist and spread his hands in acknowledgement of the praise. "I am sorry to keep you waiting, Exalted Blade. And now, it would be my greatest pleasure to release you."

"Let me," Illyria put in, moving to stand beside Mourn and treading none-too-gently on Aglarel's body with her cruel stiletto heels as she did so; from the fiery curls of her auburn locks she retrieved a bobby pin, and Mourn watched with bemused fascination as the gloaming set to picking the lock of the cell door.

Lim locked eyes with Mourn over Illyria's head and raised a questioning eyebrow, to which Mourn could only shrug. "Who is your lovely friend? She seems quite capable. I owe you a great debt for the part you have played in my escape, my lady."

"Spare me," the gloaming sighed, nonplussed by the drow-shade's flattery. "I didn't do it for you – if I had my way I'd leave you to rot in here. I did this as a favor to Mourn."

The lock clicked beneath her thin, pale fingers and the cell door creaked open; Illyria slid the bobby pin back into her hair as Lim stepped out, and though it was clear by her withering expression that she wanted nothing to do with him Lim fell to one knee before her and dragged her hand to his lips in gratitude. "Be that as it may," he went on, undaunted, "I am still grateful."

"Whatever." Illyria tore her hand from his grasp and shook it rigorously, as though she could expel the memory of his touch if she tried hard enough; Mourn reflexively opened his mouth to reprimand her rudeness, but for some reason he refrained in the end. Crossing her arms defensively she shot Mourn an appraising look, adding, "You'll be alright from here on?"

He nodded, his eyes shining with gratitude. "We'll manage. And Illyria… thank you."

"All in a day's work," she scoffed, waving off his compliment and putting her back to them, and without another word she headed back the way they had come and disappeared around a bend in the corridor.

Lim was gazing after her, mystified. "Curious."

"That's putting it mildly," Mourn admitted before adding pensively, "Mark my words – if she gets her way, she will set our entire world in a roar."

"We will have to consider her involvement another time," Lim pointed out, indicating their surroundings with a surreptitious wave of one hand. "I commend you for getting this far, my bold friend, but if we do not tread lightly we will go no further. I assume your lovely little gloaming friend had something to do with your presence here?"

"She led me to you, that much is true," Mourn admitted, "but beyond that, she had no hand in my arrival. I have been sent to collect you by Archmage Baenre."

Lim's eyes widened significantly within his shadow-swathed face. "Gromph? What can he possibly want with me? Surely the first son of the most prestigious House in Menzoberranzan isn't considering defecting to the Jaezred Chaulssin? Not that I wouldn't welcome his support with open arms, mind you."

"Nothing so drastic," lamented Mourn, "however, he has offered you asylum within Sorcere in exchange for your help casting the Princes of Shade out of the city. The war goes badly – three ruling houses already have fallen to the Army of Shade, and I suspect more still will be destroyed even before we manage to escape from here."

Lim wrinkled his nose, hardly taken with the prospect of turning himself over to Gromph's protection – namely because he didn't doubt that the Archmage would betray him in an instant if such a decision proved fruitful. Instead he asked, "And how does he expect me to aid in this? Four of the Princes of Shade departed the enclave at the head of their formidable host – against them I will hardly fare better than anyone else."

Mourn shifted his weight from one foot to the other and cast his gaze guiltily to the ground. "I told him that you had the power to divert them."

"What?!" hissed Lim in a rage, struggling to keep his voice down for fear someone might hear and investigate. "Of all the thoughtless, exaggerated… I may be a shade now, Mourn, but this life is still new to me! The sons of Telamont have had centuries to acclimated themselves to life amongst the shadows – they hold every advantage! How could I possibly – "

"Forgive me, Exalted Blade," Mourn interrupted apologetically, "but I would have told even more outlandish lies for the promise of your safety."

This was enough to deflate Lim's swiftly-mounting fury; heaving a sigh he dropped one hand companionably down upon Mourn's shoulder in a wordless display of camaraderie. The assassin had proved to be an ally beyond worth since he had pledged himself to the Jaezred Chaulssin, and Lim needed to be careful not to sour their relationship before his ultimate task had been accomplished. "You did what you needed to do, and I thank you," Lim continued mildly. "Perhaps there is a way that we might satisfy Gromph – without his promise of asylum we will likely find ourselves friendless upon our return."

Mourn considered. "We could steal the book before we depart."

It was an intriguing proposition, but not necessarily a lucrative one, Lim thought. "A possibility, but one that might bring to us more harm than good in the end. The magic of the _Imaskarcana_ is far beyond me, I'm afraid, and I have no wish to share a fate similar to the one that has befallen Prince Brennus. The moment the Archmage discovers I cannot utilize the book in the city's defense, he would confiscate it and dispose of me."

"Then… there is nothing we can do that will give us leverage over the Princes of Shade?" asked Mourn sorrowfully, and he dropped his face into his hands in utter defeat.

For one awful moment Lim Tal'eyve considered admitting defeat – if he returned to Menzoberranzan empty-handed, what use would he be to Gromph Baenre? – but then a wicked plan began taking shape in his mind. Though Mourn was almost doubled over with despair the drow-shade couldn't help the trly diabolical smile that blossomed over his face as the single best way to lift himself out of his current predicament formulated with shocking detail, a way that he could take revenge on Fourth Prince Aglarel for the countless tortures he had inflicted, solidify his usefulness in Archmage Baenre's eyes, and cripple the Army of Shade's advance all in one fell swoop.

"Actually," Lim corrected deviously, pleased when Mourn glanced up with a flicker of hope rekindling in his eyes, "perhaps there is."

Aveil was admitted at once into Villa Dusari, the private residence of First Prince Escanor that Soleil had moved into alongside him when they had wed; the princess had called upon her not long ago, and Aveil couldn't deny that she was eternally grateful for the social visit. The days following her falling out with Aglarel had been harder on her than she would ever admit, namely because she was duty-bound to continue assisting him in a professional capacity so she had no choice but to abide his company. He spoke little, which was both blessing and curse, for the sound of his voice was appealing but his words were hollow and devoid of any real emotion. She had spoken to no one of her recent hardship but suspected she would shortly – she and Soleil had become quite close in Escanor's absence, and she had come to value the mountebank's opinions and advice.

"Welcome, Sceptrana," Soleil greeted graciously when Aveil had been escorted to the princess' lavish private chambers; she and Timena, her primary lady-in-waiting, were established in comfortable chairs around an ovular table and playing at cards. Aveil waved off a servant offering to take her cloak and approached, dropping into a graceful curtsy when she drew near.

"Princess," answered Aveil with a smile. "I am always pleased and flattered to find myself in your company. Are you well?"

Soleil flattened her cards out on the table and glowered at Timena, who was obviously enjoying besting the princess at cards as she raked a small handful of silver coins across the table. "I might be better if fortune smile upon me, alas I do not think today will be such a day. Would you care to join us? We are about to deal a new hand."

Aveil nodded graciously and took up the chair at Soleil's left; the trio of ladies played a few hands, all of which Timena bested them easily, before the Sceptrana asked, "Was there something you wished to speak with me about?"

"Timena, will you fetch the tea?" Soleil bade her handmaiden with a kind smile, and the Shadovar girl abandoned her chair gracefully and let herself out at once to do her lady's bidding; Soleil took up the deck, shuffling dexterously, pointedly avoiding Aveil's inquisitive stare. It was quite some time before Soleil managed to pluck up enough courage to broach the topic that weighed on her mind. "Prince Rivalen owes you his life."

Aveil waved a hand dismissively. "Nonsense. I did what a supporter of the Tanthul family should have done – what you yourself would have done, I am certain."

A faint blush colored Soleil's cheeks. "You have me there, but your actions have significance. There is no telling what harm may have befallen him had you not boldly intervened. You should be proud of what you've done, and you are worthy of Rivalen's high praise and the accolades the Most High has bestowed upon you. I hear tell that when the war in Menzoberranzan is over and the Army of Shade celebrates their triumphant return the High Prince intends to name you a Champion of Thultanthar."

Now it was Aveil's turn to blush. "It is true."

"I can think of none more deserving," admitted Soleil with a glowing smile, but she sobered just as quickly. "Is it also true that you have fallen out with Prince Aglarel?"

The Sceptrana's eyes widened and for a moment she appeared quite panic-stricken. "How could you possibly - ?!"

Soleil tapped the tip of an index finger to her temple, and this was all the explanation Aveil needed. "You forget the empathetic link the Princes of Shade and I share – to be frank, Aglarel has been solely preoccupied with thoughts of you of late. His distress is quite easy for me to detect."

"Distress?" echoed Aveil hollowly, sitting heavily back in her chair.

"Have you quarreled?" Soleil inquired, and Aveil cast her eyes sadly upon the cards she still held in her hand. "Forgive me, I shouldn't pry."

"No, there is nothing to forgive," insisted Aveil, and with a self-deprecating shake she straightened in her chair. "Rivalen accused Aglarel of harboring some unnamed emotions for me, which Aglarel emphatically denied… I am certain he wasn't anticipating Rivalen's accusations and was simply caught off guard, but I confess the shock of hearing his lack of feelings towards me was somewhat painful. I had assumed – quite wrongly, I know that now! – that after all we had accomplished together I was more to him than merely a lesser race from the World Below… truth be told, I am not certain what I was expecting. I am foolish to be disappointed – he has never given me cause to think otherwise."

Soleil's response was unlike anything Aveil might have expected; she did not offer words of consolation, she did not regard the Sceptrana with any sympathy, she merely dropped her face into her hands with an anguished moan and mumbled despairingly into her fingers, "You two are among the most hopeless creatures I have ever known."

Aveil blinked, taken aback. "I beg your pardon?"

"Aveil," began Soleil seriously, sitting up regally and smoothing her hair back from her face, "I don't wish to meddle, but I fear yours and Aglarel's desires will never come to fruition if I do not. So forgive me, but I simply must tell you – Prince Aglarel loves you."

Aveil snorted in a most undignified fashion and focused on her cards again, as though the mirth she found in Soleil's words had brought her back to her senses. She played her hand with a flourish and regarded Soleil with a derisive smile, but was further taken aback when the mountebank continued to regard her with a kind of stony, almost deadly seriousness. Gradually Aveil's face darkened, first to suspicion, then to skepticism before at last settling on ambivalence, the last expression Soleil had ever expected to see.

"So he loves me – what of it, I ask you? What did you think to gain in telling me? Were you expecting me to run to his arms, and for us to be as blissfully happy in love as you and Prince Escanor have been?"

"Please don't make the mistake of thinking that the marriage I have entered into is devoid of its own hardships," Soleil broke in quietly, her expression one of bitter melancholy. "Nothing could be further from the truth. The death of Hadrhune hangs over our heads like a perpetual storm cloud, threatening disaster at any moment, and now we are separated by the war – we have been apart all these long months, and I do not know when he will return. Daily I wake wondering what new horrors he will face, and whether the next trial will be the end of him. The truth is I am in agony, Sceptrana, and in helping you achieve what I know you covet with all your heart I hope you might avoid a fate similar to mine."

By the end of Soleil's heartfelt admission there were tears swimming in her lovely yellow eyes; her obvious misery prompted Aveil to reach across the table and squeeze the princess' hand bracingly, saying, "I am sorry for your predicament – if I could do more than help you while away the hours until your husband's return with gossip and idle pursuits, I would. But on the subject of Aglarel's supposed affections… it simply does not matter. He will never admit to himself how he feels, and he will never petition the High Prince for permission to court me. There are dark things in his heart and his mind that he struggles to overcome, and he no longer trusts himself to be alone with anyone for fear of inadvertently causing someone harm. Not to mention that he will never trust me, not fully. I have killed and deceived since I was of the age to know how, and my past is now my cross to bear. No amount of good works I do here will ever absolve me of it. So you see – regardless of how much we may desire it, Aglarel and I will never find our way to each other."

"I disagree," Soleil argued stubbornly. "I am of the opinion that you are the only one who can guide him through the darkness that plagues him, and that only your love for him can restore the man he once was."

"Perhaps it can," admitted Aveil, "but we will never love one another as you and Prince Escanor do. There are simply too many obstacles preventing it."

"You are more right than you know, my dear Sceptrana," mocked a voice from the balcony, and whirling in their chairs Aveil and Soleil were shocked to see Lim Tal'eyve standing there wearing a superior grin of utmost malevolence. "And foremost among those obstacles is this – you will likely never see him, or the City of Shade, ever again."

Both the Sceptrana and the mountebank leapt to their feet immediately, though Aveil questioned whether an altercation with the ever-conniving drow would end in their favor despite the fact that they had him outnumbered – Soleil's weapon was nowhere to be seen, and she was not wearing her armor. Stretching out one hand Aveil willed her staff, the artifact of the High Prince's own design that he had named Stygian Invidia, into existence, and with a swirling of black shadow vapor and miniscule snowflakes the scepter materialized at her command. "You should get behind me, Soleil," Aveil growled protectively, jerking her chin in the princess' direction, and Lim shoved cockily away from the wall and began a lazy approach.

"Such barbarism!" the drow-shade declared with mock outrage, his face the picture of exaggerated indignation. "I had hoped that our encounter might not come to blows, but how am I meant to react when you draw a weapon on me and I have shown not even the slightest outward hint that I mean you any harm? I had thought your time spent amongst the Princes of Shade would have made you a tad more refined, Aveil, but I see you are the same painted trollop you've always been. But I am not an unreasonable man – I will give you one opportunity to stand aside. I am here to collect the princess, and I have no intention of apprehending you, but if you stand in my way your life will similarly be forfeit."

"Aveil – " Soleil hissed, clearly prepared to convince the Sceptrana to step aside and save herself, but Aveil shook her head roughly once and moved not an inch from where she stood, prompting Lim to heave a would-be tragic sigh.

"Arrogant even until the end," he sighed, clearly nonplussed by her display of bravado. "Then I suppose there's nothing else for it – I'll have to take you both into my custody, I'm afraid. Mourn?"

There followed a dull thump and a kind of muffled gasp from behind Aveil, and turning back with her staff held defensively aloft the Sceptrana watched as Soleil swooned forward, her eyes rolling; behind her, Mourntrin Auvryndar reached out an arm and snagged the reeling mountebank by the hair before hoisting her now prone body over his shoulder. Aveil gritted her teeth and steeled herself for a battle, fully aware that these two foes combined were beyond her. "What could you possibly want with the princess? She has done nothing to you – leave her be."

Lim crossed his arms with a deep frown. "Is this a plea for mercy I hear? You're correct, of course – I have no quarrel with the princess. Let us call her leverage."

"Leverage?" Aveil echoed with a derisive laugh, painfully aware of Mourn's too-near presence lurking just behind her and Soleil's barely-conscious groans. "You must know that there is nothing you could barter that would convince the High Prince to grant your freedom, and when he catches wind of your harsh treatment of Soleil he will rend your shadow orb with such pitilessness – "

The drow-shade rolled his eyes, hardly intimidated by Aveil's threats. "Spare me your diatribe, dearest Aveil, for it is meaningless – I have no intention of bargaining with the High Prince, and I fully expect to be long gone before he learns of your abduction. No, you and the princess will be my bargaining chips elsewhere, and I fully expect all of my demands will be met in exchange for the promise of your safety. Don't worry – I have no intention of harming you, unless you leave me no choice in the matter. A pair of more valuable hostages could not be found in all the Realms!"

And clenching one hand into a tight fist before him Lim conjured an orb of blackest shadow, whose tendrils writhed as though possessed of a life all their own; Aveil managed three syllables of a counterspell in her own defense but the tendrils of darkness were far quicker, snaking around her wrists and ankles with such speed and force that they effectively derailed her concentration and put an end to the beginnings of her spell. Even so restrained the Sceptrana struggled to free herself, her desperate eyes always locked upon Soleil's lolling head, until one particularly thick shadowy vine wrapped around her throat and squeezed with exacting pressure until she grew still in its clutches. The moment Aveil passed out of consciousness the tendrils relaxed at Lim's silent command, no longer attacking but simply binding, and he turned to face Mourn with victory shining in his cunning amber eyes.

"Now, my opportunistic friend, let us leave this foul kingdom behind and return at once to our homeland – I have a feeling that the odds of us convincing the Princes of Shade to withdraw their troops from Menzoberranzan just increased a hundredfold."


	11. Chapter Eleven - Dying to Live

So it was that same night, oblivious to the tragedies occurring elsewhere in Lord Shadow's domain, Third Prince Lamorak sat down alone at his luxurious study desk with his finest quill and a full inkwell, resolved to put his dedicated translations to the test and at last reach out to his youngest brother still lost within the annals of the Sixth _Imaskarcana_. By the light of a single candle he wet the point of his quill in silvery ink and held his hand poised over the black quartz page upon which Brennus's thoughts were still inscribing themselves in shimmering golden script – the same phrase over and over, Lamorak now knew.

Please, someone, anyone, I beg of you. Help me.

With exaggerated care Lamorak set his quill to the page, just beneath Brennus's desperate entreaty, and penned his reply in Roushoum.

I am here, brother. You are not alone. Let me help you.

Abruptly the golden script vanished as though wiped clean, leaving only Lamorak's still-damp, silvery scrawl; the Third Prince stared down at the page, holding his breath, certain that if he still had a heart it would be pounding painfully against his ribs. And then the words were coming quickly, as though in his relief Brennus couldn't help but rush to share his thoughts.

Lamorak, of course it is you! Dearest brother, so brilliant, so unceasingly clever! I might have known. Thank the Night Mother you have solved the riddle that I, in my foolish desperation, could not.

The despair bleeding through the page was almost a tangible thing that Lamorak could feel; he wished with all his might he could reach through those cursed pages and embrace Brennus fiercely, but there was no way to make such a desire come true. Pushing his emotions aside he asked the most pressing question, the one he knew the High Prince desired to be answered above all else.

Are you alive?

The reply was slower, pensive and maddeningly inconclusive. I am uncertain. I have no body, I do not breathe, I see nothing, I feel nothing. Though my prospects seem grim, still I think there may be hope. You see that I am able to communicate, and I seem to have retained my thoughts, and my emotions, and most importantly, my memories. I remember everything, Lamorak. I remember it all.

Tell me how this happened to you. Lamorak could not help the swelling of protectiveness blossoming deep within his chest now. If Brennus confirmed that his fate was Lim Tal'eyve's doing, as he had suspected from the very start, he would deliver upon the wretched drow a swift and gruesome end.

Suddenly Brennus's handwriting was filling the page, so quickly that Lamorak struggled to translate it all before the words vanished to be replaced by still more of the lost prince's testimony, as at last the Third Prince learned of his brother's tragic fate in full.

You know that it was only because of my ill-advised intervention that the drow assassin, Mourntrin Auvryndar, escaped from here with his life – what you don't know is that I helped him to meet with Lim before he departed the enclave for the Underdark. At Phendrana's insistence I rescued Lim from certain death at the hands of that drow priestess, for you recall that Phendrana prophesized Lim being sacrificed to the Spider Queen and was desperate to stop it; afterward Mourn delivered something to Lim, something that Lim had been laboring to claim for many years. But what he desired and what he received were not one in the same – what Mourn brought was the Imaskarcana, which I am now trapped in.

Lim did not share with me the book's existence at first; he waited until he had exhausted all his resources before enlisting me, for despite his best efforts he was unable to so much as breach the lock must less unravel the enchantments binding the book closed. Knowing how frantic I was to win a place at the High Prince's side Lim spun a tale of grandeur in order to coerce me into action, and I am ashamed to admit that I took the bait – and so I took the Imaskarcana from him, and poured every ounce of my knowledge into revealing its secrets, and when I was certain I had exposed its arcane wisdom I let my guard down and made a fatal mistake. You must know that you can only translate the book in Roushoum, the ancient language of the Imaskari, or else you would share a fate similar to mine… you possess the knowledge that I, in my desperation to please our sovereign, carelessly overlooked. Those who translate the book's contents in any other language, either written or spoken, find themselves assimilated into its passages – doomed to deepen its wellspring of magical potential for all time. Its power has grown considerably since enslaving me – it is now the strongest of the set, I am sure.

Lamorak moaned aloud, and so overcome with melancholy he ran a hand raggedly down his face and could not so much as glance at the book for a minute or more. As a Prince of Shade he knew all too well how the High Prince's favor – or lack thereof – could change a man's fortunes for better or ill in the blink of an eye; he could only imagine how Brennus, disgraced and desperate, would have leapt at even the most despicable of opportunities if it might have meant returning to their patron's good graces. He didn't have the heart to fault his naïve brother for that – he had no guarantee that, had their roles been reversed, he would not have acted just as thoughtlessly. For this reason alone he chose not to lecture Brennus for his poor choices – surely the loremaster had suffered enough.

Never mind Lim for now – he is the High Prince's prisoner and only lives until his usefulness has run its course, which cannot be long. We must focus on your plight. You mentioned you yet have hope – tell me what avenues we might explore.

I have yet to determine a method which gives me absolute confidence, for I have had to learn to translate these more common tongues into Roushoum just to delve into the book as you have, but my understanding of Imaskari magic grows stronger by the hour. That is the one advantage I have now – the longer I remain imprisoned within the Imaskarcana, the more powerful I become. At first I was simply adrift within its pages, but now I can traverse them as easily as any footpath. Where before I balked at these unfamiliar symbols and what consequences I might suffer simply in trying to decipher them, now I relish each opportunity I have to tap into yet more magic. Today I still do not know of any way to restore myself to the body I inhabited before the Imaskarcana enslaved me, but tomorrow? That has yet to be seen. Within these pages is penned magic devastating enough to reshape the world as we know it – surely I might also find a means to return to the Material Plane.

Though Lamorak took heart in Brennus's optimism, he found himself frowning down at the page all the same. Thus far it seemed there was no way he might aid his brother in returning to his corporeal form, and worse still there was no guarantee yet that such a thing could be done at all. He dipped his quill in the inkwell yet again, another inquiry already forming in his mind, but before he could begin to inscribe his thoughts upon the page Brennus's golden script began filling the empty margins yet again.

As much as I would dearly love to while away several hours reading your recounting of all that has happened in my lengthy absence, I must pass along something of the direst importance to you. I know of Voltain Darkydle, and I know of his ambitions to possess all seven volumes of the Imaskarcana.

How could you possibly know of that? His passing here occurred after your departure from this plane of existence.

Yes, but I am still aware of certain things that occur within a certain radius of this book. Over time I have learned to project my awareness beyond these pages and perceive the goings-on around me, and that radius widens considerably as I continue to study and absorb the Imaskarcana's magic. I sensed his presence here easily, for the seven volumes of the Imaskarcana are highly attuned to one another; I knew the moment the book changed hands, for I could feel his higher understanding of Imaskari magic and the Roushoum language emanating from his being. But then the most curious thing happened – for a moment I could have sworn I heard Hadrhune calling out to me, begging for aid, and so I responded with a spell I learned within these very pages and managed to drive Voltain Darkydle away. It was the first time I endeavored to channel the book's magic using my own essence as a conduit in order to manifest it beyond these pages – it is fortunate that I was successful, or things would most certainly have gone ill for you. Forgive me for saying so, brother, but at the time you were simply incapable of fending Voltain off – in a battle of ancient Imaskari spellbooks your adversary holds many advantages, his heritage perhaps foremost among these.

There was little reason to argue the point, Lamorak knew, for it was true – at the time Voltain Darkydle had been beyond him, but now…

Never mind that for now. What of the great matter you meant to divulge?

Yes – that. Voltain is closing in on the location of yet another one of the lost tomes of the Imaskarcana – if he manages to retrieve it and add its arcane knowledge to his already-considerable strength, there may not be a sorcerer in all of Faerun capable of opposing him. It is of the utmost importance that you recover the tome before he does, or our entire city may be in peril. He considers the Tanthul family a threat, and he will eliminate us all the instant he possesses the power to do so.

Where can I find it? Lamorak was now so intrigued, and so frightened, that his hand was trembling as he wrote.

I am doing my best to decipher the location, but have not pinpointed it yet. The answers to all the questions you have, and even the ones that have not occurred to you, are all written somewhere within here… But unraveling such secrets takes considerable time and effort. Each spell is like a locked door; you invest all your energy and knowledge into unlocking it, only to find a half-dozen more doors on the other side. The moment I have learned of its location, I will translate it for you. Then it will be up to you to reach it before anyone else does, and to safeguard it from Voltain Darkydle.

Lamorak had just set the tip of his quill to the page to jot down his reply when the door to his private quarters burst open; he glanced up furiously to reprimand the impertinent fool with the audacity to admit himself into the chambers of a Prince of Shade uninvited and unannounced, but his tirade died in the back of his throat as he glimpsed Phendrana doubled over in his doorway with a panic-stricken expression upon his face. The doppelganger locked eyes with Lamorak as he labored for breath, and even from a distance there was no mistaking the abject horror in Phendrana's face.

"You must come with me at once," Phendrana gasped out, and as he straightened up at last Lamorak could clearly see tears shimmering in his eyes. "The Most High has called for an emergency session of the council… Soleil and Aveil are gone."

In the High Prince's audience chamber, all was chaos; Phendrana and Lamorak shadow-walked into the midst of a tirade, their sovereign pacing about wrathfully before a half-formed line of princes including Dethud, Mattick and Vattick, and Melegaunt. It wasn't until they had nearly taken up their traditional places in the line that Lamorak noticed one additional figure amongst them whom he had overlooked upon arrival – Timena, the demure Shadovar girl who served as Soleil's primary lady-in-waiting. As Lamorak hurried to his appointed station the High Prince struck her with a backhand blow that sent her sprawling, and she lay collapsed at his feet cowering as he turned to face them.

"This unfortunate wretch has just delivered a most fascinating testimony," Telamont told them, in a tone that made it perfectly clear he found nothing fascinating in the matter, "in which she went to fetch tea for the princess, and when she returned the princess was mysteriously gone."

"And Aveil?" Lamorak prompted, unable to keep the inquiry to himself, but it seemed the Most High was too distraught to reprimand his son's interruption.

"A guest of Soleil's at the time, and also missing upon this incompetent slave's return," Telamont spat, returning to his pacing and nearly trodding on poor Timena as he passed. "She reported signs of foul play, which Phendrana has already confirmed." Lamorak shot a questioning glance in the doppelganger's direction, but his eyes were fixed upon the trembling form of Soleil's handmaiden and he did not acknowledge the gaze. "The palace guards are sweeping the entire city now, but I feel our prospects are grim."

"Surely Aglarel will at least find some clue, some trail we might follow," volunteered Vattick, looking intensely distressed, and something about this comment stopped their sovereign in his tracks.

"Aglarel has not responded to my summons," Telamont informed them coolly, puzzlement and rage warring in his voice. "I have called to him four times now, yet he does not appear. It's true that he has not been himself lately, but he has never blatantly refused an audience."

"Nor would he," pointed out Lamorak diplomatically, insinuating that which they all feared: something was seriously wrong.

It was then that Rivalen appeared in their midst, looking distracted and harassed; taking his place at Lamorak's immediate left he spread his hands as if in apology, saying, "From what I have had time to divine, I am certain that Soleil and Aveil are no longer within the enclave – where they have gone, though, I have yet to determine. It will take further prayer and focus to locate them, but I'm certain I will."

"Every moment that slips by is a moment they are in danger," the High Prince snarled furiously, and the terrifying chill of his gaze was enough to make Rivalen stumble out of line as though spurred to action by fear –

The shadows in the farthest corner of the audience chamber stirred suddenly, and a stunned hush came down among them as Aglarel materialized nearby; the Fourth Prince strode silently forward, his eyes fixed resolutely upon the ground, and foregoing his position in line he stepped right over the cowering Timena and prostrated himself before the High Prince in a position of complete vulnerability.

"Holy Father," he began, his voice a lamentation, "I have failed you. I was interrogating the drow in the dungeons and was attacked from behind. When I came to, Lim Tal'eyve was gone… he has escaped, My Lord."

A silence so icy and profound followed this proclamation that a severe chill stole throughout Phendrana's body, and it took every ounce of self-mastery he possessed to keep from physically shuddering. "There can be but one explanation," the mindmaster spoke up bravely, pointedly avoiding the High Prince's infuriated stare lest he lost his nerve. "Whoever accosted Aglarel freed Lim, and somehow Lim waylaid both Soleil and Aveil. He must be responsible for their disappearance."

Aglarel's back stiffened and he glanced around to regard Phendrana with crimson eyes. "What did you just say?"

"He said the Princess and the Sceptrana have been abducted and taken away from Thultanthar," clarified Rivalen in an unforgiving tone, abandoning his place in line and advancing toward where Aglarel still knelt on the ground. "Imprisoned, at the mercy of an enemy of Shade, perhaps injured or even killed… because of _you_."

"Brother," Lamorak implored, attempting to be the voice of reason as he hurried forward and seized the Second Prince by the elbow. "He can hardly be blamed for this! Someone else attacked him at unawares – thank the Night Mother he was not killed!"

Rivalen shook his brother off easily, his face expressionless as he glared down at Aglarel, who had yet to even shift into any sort of defensive posture. "Yes," the High Priest agreed at last, "it is fortunate he was spared so that I might kill him myself."

The blow that followed was accompanied by the sickening crunch of bone and a grunt of discomfort from Aglarel; Phendrana wasn't certain which bone had broken but judging from the trajectory of Rivalen's fist he guessed the nose, or perhaps a cheekbone. Saddest of all was Aglarel's reaction – he simply gazed emotionlessly back at his older brother with eerily empty eyes, still crouched in a position of utter submission, and said not a word in protest. Rivalen scowled, disappointed by the lack of confrontation, and struck a second time, hard enough that one of Aglarel's teeth chipped and landed near the place where Timena still lay, flecking the floor with droplets of blood. Still unsatisfied the Second Prince surrendered all restraint and rained down a string of brutal blows in rapid succession that Aglarel, in his despair, did not even attempt to avoid.

It was the words Rivalen spoke that caused the most pain. "This is the thanks she gets for standing by you?! This is her eternal reward for all the loyalty she has shown you?! To be kidnapped and tortured at the hands of the madman you once swore to protect her from?! This is how you react to the news that she has been taken from us – to wallow in your own personal failures instead of taking responsibility for the fate that has befallen her?! You _coward_, you _fiend_, you false friend, you pitiful excuse for – "

"If you're going to kill me, Brother," Aglarel interrupted in a defeated voice, and when he finally looked up to regard Rivalen they could all clearly see the viscous black tears pooling in his dull eyes; Lamorak audibly gasped, for in all the long years of his life he had never once witnessed his stoic brother shed tears. "Then kill me now and be done with it. It is no less than precisely what I deserve."

A kind of demented resolution hardened in Rivalen's eyes, and in the instant before he struck again it was clear to them all that his next blow would surely be the last.

"No!" cried Phendrana, and suddenly he was a blur of desperate motion though it seemed to him that his body was entirely out of his control; the reason became clear almost immediately, however, when he felt all his mental facilities wrested away as Hadrhune took control. The seneschal refused to call a weapon to his defense, instead leaping between the prone Aglarel and the murderous-eyed Rivalen with grim determination etched into his face, and the serrated shadow claws that had sprouted from the fingers of Rivalen's right hand slashed right across Hadrhune's midriff. The pain was excruciating, so much so that one of Hadrhune's knees buckled beneath him and he sank down to the ground, and then Lamorak was there wrestling a wide-eyed Rivalen away.

Hadrhune lifted his head with some difficulty, wisps of black shadowstuff seeping freely from the awful lacerations he had sustained across his stomach, and drawing in a ragged breath he growled, "Is this what the great Princes of Shade have been reduced to since my passing – squabbling, hateful children? Is this the timeless dynasty I sacrificed my life to preserve – one prone to dissolution and scorn? It cannot be, I refuse to believe it, I _will not_ believe it! The sons of Lord Shadow do not waste their precious time placing blame and wallowing in self-pity, they take action! They strike back against those who dare to wrong them! Perhaps Prince Aglarel is to blame for this tragedy, and perhaps he isn't – either way, what is solved? Soleil and Aveil are missing, but with careful consideration and quick action we might yet ensure that no further harm befalls them. Is not now the time to band together, rather than hold useless grudges? Do we not agree that their safety is of the utmost priority, and not who is at fault?"

The ringing truth of Hadrhune's words, coupled with the shock of seeing the seneschal before them at all, was enough to diffuse the aura of half-crazed malice permeating the air; feeling the tension ease out of Rivalen's shoulders Lamorak consented to release him, relieved when the Second Prince did not move to strike again but simply stood there, appearing ashamed of his rash behavior. Mattick and Vattick hurried over to help Aglarel up, whose face still appeared bloodied and bruised in a few places but was already well on the way to fully mending, and it was High Prince Telamont himself who ushered a still-wincing Hadrhune back to his feet with all the care of a concerned father.

"A valiant speech," Telamont congratulated him with the ghost of a self-deprecating smile, "and one we all sorely needed to hear, I'm afraid. You are invaluable even in death, Hadrhune. You have my eternal thanks for your timely intervention."

"But Hadrhune," began Melegaunt, awestruck still by the seneschal's presence, "how…?"

"Hadrhune is a part of Phendrana now," the Most High explained, even as he expended a fraction of his magical abilities to quicken the regenerative process of Hadrhune's body, "in the same way that Phendrana's six lost friends were a part of him prior to his transformation. Hadrhune's body has expired, but his psyche has been preserved – as such, he is just as much a member of this council as any of you. He is right – locating and recovering the Princess and the Sceptrana is all that matters at this juncture. Rivalen – return to the Church and beseech the Night Mother to bestow upon you her wisdom and guidance, and do not cease your prayers until she has told you where they can be found. In the meantime, the rest of you will comb the city – leave not a single corner unsearched! If it is true, and they have been abducted and taken outside the city's boundaries, we will reconvene and consider how best to search for them elsewhere. I expect hourly reports from all of you, and even more frequently if you have something urgent to report – that goes not only for the whereabouts of Soleil and Aveil, but also of the passing of Lim Tal'eyve and the identity of the mysterious party who accosted Aglarel in the dungeons. Now go!"

They scattered to all directions with all speed to see to the High Prince's agenda – all except for Aglarel, who somehow seemed to sense that his business with the venerable monarch was far from over. Telamont waited until all the others had gone, and when they were alone he turned to his favored half-devil son with such disappointment in his eyes that Aglarel felt crushed beneath the weight of that gaze.

"Aglarel," said the High Prince, in a voice so soft that his son had to strain to hear, "when I awakened the primal urges sleeping in your blood all those months ago, I did not do so simply to watch you struggle to sublimate it. I did so because your unshakeable loyalty to me, coupled with the power you wield when you embrace your true self, makes you the ultimate instrument of my will. I have stood by over the weeks and watched you wage silent battle within yourself, content to wait until you came to accept the truth of your own heritage in your own time, but the longer I stand by the more convinced I become that you are straying further from the desired outcome. And that is this – you do not want to become my weapon. You are no longer as loyal to me as you once were."

Despaired, Aglarel spread his hands beseechingly. "I desire to carry out your wishes now just as much as I always have. My loyalty has never wavered – this much, I swear."

Telamont drifted closer, until he could reach out and lay both hands upon his son's shoulders as though in an attempt to ground him; Aglarel's eyes were wide and vacant, as though he was completely lost in his own thoughts. "Then I urge you to be honest with yourself. I see in your eyes that you have thoughts and emotions you are refusing to acknowledge, and I implore you to face them. If you are truly loyal to me, you will do as I say."

Aglarel continued to stand there, trapped beneath his father's searching gaze, and realized that if he was not entirely truthful in this confrontation he would likely lose the High Prince's confidence for all time. Knowing that, the feelings he had been stifling for so long suddenly seemed almost easy to confess; he met his father's eyes evenly, unafraid for the first time in weeks.

"Your agenda has always been the nearest thing to my heart, and even now I have no qualms with carrying it out," he confided. "My reservations are with myself, and I can tell only you the depths of my fears – I feel the call of my blood every moment, threatening to overwhelm me, and I could give into it so easily but I am afraid of how it might impact those around me. I cannot control it, and those near me are in constant physical danger."

"And there is a reason losing control concerns you so," Telamont insisted gently, and Aglarel inhaled sharply at that.

"Yes, Holy Father," the Fourth Prince admitted at last. "It is because I am in love with Aveil."

Telamont nodded knowingly, and Aglarel felt a fool for ever thinking he could hide the truth of his emotions from his omnipotent patron. "Yes – and now that you have admitted as much to yourself, you need only ask yourself one final question… How far are you willing to go, what are you willing to sacrifice, to save the one you love?"

"You investigated Soleil's residence?" Lamorak inquired hastily, striding quickly down the main hall to keep up with the fleet-footed Hadrhune, and though the seneschal answered he did not slow.

"Yes, Timena came first to Phendrana and me when she returned to the princess's private quarters and found her missing – a chair had been overturned, and all of Soleil's weapons were untouched. She was taken completely at unawares."

"And do you think that Soleil and Aveil's disappearance and Lim Tal'eyve's escape are in direct relation to one another?" huffed Lamorak as he followed at a near-run.

"There can be no doubt of that," called a third voice from behind them, and Lamorak whirled back as Hadrhune halted in his tracks and transformed back into Phendrana in the blink of an eye; Seventh Prince Dethud was in a rush to close the distance between them, looking far more distressed than he had during their emergency council session with the Most High, and as he completed his approach they discovered he appeared quite downtrodden indeed. He glanced back and forth between the pair of them surreptitiously, as though considering just how much to divulge in mixed company, before dropping his shoulders in a display of complete defeat and heaving a dejected sigh. "I fear I have made quite a mess of things, and I ought to have come to you much sooner than this, but that can't be helped now. Better to confess all now and risk my own damnation than continue to keep my silence and condemn you to further danger."

Lamorak lifted an eyebrow in curiosity. "What are you on about?"

Dethud ran a hand raggedly down his face and exhaled sharply, and then his shocking confession was rolling off his tongue as though a dam had burst inside him. "I'm afraid I know far more than I have let on over the past several weeks. I know of Deep Imaskar, and the self-appointed Lord Artificer Voltain Darkydle, and his crusade to reclaim all seven volumes of the _Imaskarcana_." Seeing that his older brother was about to interject the necromancer held one hand aloft to stay his words, continuing, "I have been carrying on intimately with one of Voltain's advisors – since long before I knew she was passing information along to him, I assure you! Our last meeting ended on a sour note, however, and I fear she may now be working to undermine me… the moment Aglarel reported Lim Tal'eyve's escape I knew it could only be her doing. I cannot fathom just how, but I know that she had a hand in it."

Lamorak seized his younger brother by the collar and all but dragged him across the tile until they were nearly nose to nose; in his shame Dethud lowered his gaze to the floor, altogether unwilling to look the Third Prince in the eye. "Why did you not present your suppositions to the High Prince?!" he demanded. "Never mind the weeks of guesswork and conjecture we have poured into deciphering the _Imaskarcana_, or the breach in Thultanthar's security that might have resulted in mine and Phendrana's deaths – where was this confession just minutes ago, when we had all gathered to share our findings to the Most High?! Do you not understand that the High Prince's treasured daughter-in-law has likely been abducted, and may even now be enduring unspeakable tortures? Do you realize that we have lost our authority on the arcane, to whom the High Prince has long since granted his favor?"

"There is more," admitted Dethud dejectedly. "My liaison is a fatespinner – she has the ability to divine outcomes that are destined to come to pass. Sometimes she is able to determine where these events might occur."

As quickly as Lamorak had seized the front of Dethud's robes he now released them and leapt back a pace or two as though burned; Phendrana glanced back and forth between them, alarmed. In an oddly hushed, reverent sort of voice the Third Prince murmured, "She told you where to find one of the books… didn't she?"

"A desert wasteland," Dethud recited hollowly. "A lost kingdom hidden in the spur of a golden mountain. Ruins beneath the sand, lost in some ancient cataclysm, guarded by wicked creatures and deadly, long-forgotten magic. It is here that you will unearth the Fourth _Imaskarcana_, long believed to be forever lost in the ravages of time and the unforgiving elements of the desert. It is here, in the skies above the wreckage, where you will do battle with Prince Lamorak of Shade, and claim his tome for your own." Upon finishing his recitation Dethud regarded his brother apologetically, knowing how dire the situation sounded and wishing with all his might he could impart a more favorable prophecy; Lamorak had taken to stroking his chin with one hand as though deep in thought, and within the depths of his chest Phendrana suddenly felt an unexplainable, white-hot rage surge forth.

"No," snarled the doppelganger angrily, and stepping forward he clapped one hand around Lamorak's wrist with such force that the Determinist Prime actually winced. "I cannot in good conscience allow you to leave."

"'_Allow_ me'?" echoed Lamorak incredulously, tugging his arm free of Phendrana's grasp with difficulty, and Phendrana immediately regretted his thoughtless words.

"I would never have the audacity to tell you what to do," the mindmaster clarified carefully, "but surely you see the folly in pursuing this nonsense? Are you truly considering trusting to the word of a creature about whom you know so little? Prince Dethud has already confessed that this liaison of his is also serving Voltain Darkydle _and_ that she likely assisted Lim in his escape! It seems to me that she is a loose cannon, and that her only interest is planting the seeds of discord in the minds of any who will listen!"

Lamorak turned to regard Dethud yet again, suddenly businesslike. "Did she report this same testimony to Voltain Darkydle?" he demanded, and when Dethud hung his head in shame the Third Prince found that he didn't need to hear the answer.

Phendrana threw up his hands in frustration, incensed that his wise mentor and friend was even considering such a rash course of action. "I implore you, Prince, be reasonable! Too much is at stake already – the war with Menzoberranzan, the disappearance of Soleil and Aveil – for you to depart the enclave alone in search something you may or may not find! The risks – "

"Pale in comparison to the fate that awaits us all in the event that Voltain Darkydle gets his hands on another volume of the _Imaskarcana_!" Lamorak overrode the mindmaster with a roar. "Do you not recall the outcome of our last confrontation with him? Allow me to remind you – were it not for the timely intervention of Hadrhune, the Lord Artificer would have bested us handily! Think of the chaos he would wreck on Thultanthar if he came into possession of one more of the _Imaskarcana_! None would be able to oppose him! Do you truly believe this is a possibility we can ignore?!"

"Is it worth your life?!" Phendrana shot back passionately, stamping his foot, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "Are you truly willing to throw away everything you have built here for this ghost of a chance?!"

"And what is it you think I have built here that is so very precious?!" the Third Prince shouted, and that brought Phendrana up short; the doppelganger's face fell as though Lamorak had said something he found deeply hurtful, and Lamorak merely regarded him with a superior glint in his eye as if silently daring Phendrana to refute the point. All the while Dethud glanced confusedly back and forth between the two, suddenly feeling distinctly like he was privy to a very private argument that had nothing at all to do with him. Abruptly Lamorak found that he could no longer bear the spurned expression on Phendrana's face, and he clutched the _Imaskarcana _more closely to his chest as if for comfort – he hadn't realized the book had been tucked beneath his arm all this time until that very moment.

"The moment I have determined the location of the book," Lamorak murmured, his voice a low warning, "I will be off in search of it. Allowing Voltain Darkydle to locate it first is not an option – if he does, none of us will survive."

Phendrana bowed and spread his hands in obeisance, but there was something about the gesture that seemed openly mocking, in Dethud's opinion. "You must do as you will," snarled the doppelganger. "For my part, I will continue to focus on the task the High Prince has given me."

"Splendid," snapped Lamorak, and simultaneously he and Phendrana put their backs to one another and stormed off in opposite directions.

Dethud stood there for a moment longer, positively stymied by the unconventional display he had just witnessed; presently he recalled the importance of the events at hand, though, and scrambled to be off about his business.

Gromph Baenre stood by quietly as he watched his capricious sister Quenthel, Matron Mother of the greatest drow house in all of Menzoberranzan, stalk about the elaborate prayer chapel in a frenzy. Had they been anywhere but the extreme interior chambers of House Baenre they would have clearly glimpsed the leaping flames consuming Fourth House Mizzrym, the latest bloody conquest of the Shadow Lords from the City of Shade. The fall of House Mizzrym was really of no consequence to the high and mighty Baenres, but it represented far more than just the eradication of yet another rival establishment – House Mizzrym was known for its cabal of talented wizards as well as its formidable sect of High Priestesses of Lolth. Knowing that the Mizzryms had been cast down would of course not sit well with Quenthel, who even now would be fretting over the arcane and divine mastery the Princes of Shade must surely wield in order to lay waste to such a stalwart house; if the Princes of Shade could best House Mizzrym, it was not outside the realm of possibility to assume that they possessed the strength to best anyone.

Predictably Quenthel wheeled on him. "You assured me that the barrier defenses would hold. What of the scouting parties patrolling the tunnels on the perimeter of the city? Mizzrym had almost no advance warning before they were overrun. Will you allow the same to happen to House Baenre? Because make no mistake, brother, they _are_ coming for us."

Gromph couldn't quite help his soft snicker of derision, secretly pleased when his sister's eyes blazed in response. "Have you any idea the enormity of the task you set me? Barrier defenses mean little to a race of sorcerers who can move through the Shadow Realm at will, and scouting parties are no use for hunting shadows. As for Mizzrym's lack of warning, their devotion to the Spider Queen must have been lackluster indeed if they were taken completely at unawares. Lolth rewards the faithful – she would not have abandoned true believers. And why should the fall of House Mizzrym concern you? If the Princes of Shade feel inclined to eliminate enemies of House Baenre on their way, who are we to stop them?"

"It was never my intention to rule over a graveyard," Quenthel shot back, "and what guarantee have we that House Baenre will win out in the end? The Princes of Shade are driven by vengeance, and will not stop until they raze Menzoberranzan to the ground. _You_ are the Archmage of this city, now do your duty and defend it!"

At this, Gromph's laughter only intensified; his sister's gaze grew ever more steely, a sure sign that he was treading on treacherous ground, but he simply had to impart one last parting shot. "And remind me, whose fault is it that the Princes of Shade are marching for our doorstep? Was it not you who dispatched our foolish niece Quartana on the suicide mission that led her to Thultanthar? Did you think the High Prince would turn a blind eye to the unprovoked string of assassination attempts against his emissaries, his own progeny?"

Quenthel advanced toward him menacingly, one hand resting upon the whip of sentient vipers belted upon her hip. "Need I remind you that all Quartana did, she did at the Spider Queen's express demand? And with very good reason – have you forgotten the alliance the Princes of Shade struck with that traitor, Lim Tal'eyve? His downfall is now perhaps more important to Lolth than any other agenda we may entertain – she demanded we put him down at all costs!"

"Yes, she did – and now look around you, dear sister." Gromph spread his arms wide as if in silent indication of the carnage being wrecked just beyond House Baenre's walls. "See how high a price we must pay. Is it worth it? Will it be worth it, perhaps, when we are all dead?"

There was murder in Quenthel's eyes now, and Gromph was certain she would punish him for his insubordination this time – until a third voice spoke up from across the prayer chamber, derailing their quarrel at once. "With all due respect, I do not believe it will come to that."

Gromph whirled to face the speaker as Quenthel strode forward, the whip of malicious vipers writhing in her hand now; from the shadows cast from a nearby candelabra upon the relief of a towering spider emerged a black figure with amber eyes, his entire body clothed all in a thin veil of shadows like a familiar shroud.

"_You_," hissed the Matron Mother in a sudden rage, her vipers spitting venom in response to their mistress's anger, and regaining his corporeal form Lim Tal'eyve spread his hands and bowed mockingly low before her. "You dare to show your face in this holy sanctuary to Lolth?! Have you no shame?! Have you no sense of propriety?!"

"I think you will find, dearest Matron Mother, that I possess none of those things," Lim corrected dryly, straightening up and clapping his hands together once with a distinctly businesslike air; seeing Gromph standing just behind the seething Quenthel the drow-shade offered a salute, adding, "Salutations, Archmage. May I offer you my most heartfelt thanks for the aid you granted me - as you can see, my fortunes have greatly improved as a result of your generous intervention."

Quenthel glared back and forth between the two of them, incensed. "Explain yourself, dog!"

"With pleasure," answered Lim with a saccharine smile. "You see, until very recently I was the guest of High Prince Telamont. My stay was not particularly hospitable – the accommodations of the dungeons were quite lacking, I'm afraid – but I was there long enough to make a few friends, and to earn the highest accolade the Princes of Shade could ever grant me. But all good things come to an end, as they say, and when I wore out my welcome I could think of nothing but returning to my beloved homeland."

"Explain yourself faster, or I will allow my sister to rip out that articulate tongue of yours," warned Gromph impatiently.

"With all speed," Lim reassured. "So I asked myself, what might make an adequate welcome gift? For of course I would never be so rude as to invite myself into your midst without some gesture of goodwill! And I believe I have outdone myself, if I might be so bold."

"There is nothing you could possibly offer me that would keep me from killing you," snarled Quenthel, prowling another step forward, but Gromph caught his sister by the forearm as a grin of absolute victory lit upon Lim's face.

"I will allow you to be the judge," offered the drow-shade graciously, and snapping his fingers he retreated a few steps back into the shadows where yet another figure was stirring…

When next Lim emerged from the gloom he was accompanied by Mourntrin Auvryndar, and they were each dragging a bound and gagged figure alongside them. Lim was manhandling a petite woman in charcoal gray spellcaster's robes with scorching violet eyes and a shock of black hair; Mourn appeared to be fighting with a slightly taller woman with a warrior's lithe muscles, with hair longer but just as dark and unusual eyes the color of sunshine. Their clothes were torn and they seemed disoriented and slightly disheveled but otherwise unhurt; Lim and Mourn shoved their captives forward and they sprawled unceremoniously on the floor at the feet of Quenthel and Gromph, struggling against their bonds and glaring up at their new adversaries with hatred and loathing in their eyes.

"Allow me to introduce Aveil Arthien, Sceptrana of Shade, and Princess Soleil Tanthul, wife of the First Prince of Thultanthar," Lim told them with exaggerated flair. "And I feel quite confident in saying that, if you play your cards right, they will prove invaluable pawns in turning the tide of the war in our favor… if the four of us can reach an accord that is?"

Quartana knelt right down on the floor and cupped Soleil's chin in her hand, her cruel white nails scratching livid crimson lines down the princess's cheeks, and smiled pitilessly at the blatant fear this simple gesture sparked in Soleil's wide eyes.

"House Baenre is pleased beyond measure to welcome you both back to Menzoberranzan," said the Matron Mother, her voice saturated with sadistic pleasure, and Lim Tal'eyve knew then he had won.


	12. Chapter Twelve - Dancing on Broken Glass

Back in his private quarters Lamorak rifled through the pages of the Sixth _Imaskarcana_ until he reached the familiar black quartz sheet within which he now knew was housed Brennus's soul. As he was scrambling to retrieve his quill and inkwell he caught a glimpse of shimmering gold out of the corner of his eye, and turning back toward the ponderous tome he noticed that Brennus's elegant script was already sprawling across the page.

Lamorak, I believe I may have ascertained the location of the Fourth Imaskarcana based upon Dethud's testimony.

The Third Prince paused in surprise, the tip of his quill hovering in place just millimeters above the page. With a single sentence Brennus had brought to light dozens of questions that Lamorak hadn't thought to ask before, and despite the looming reminder that time was of the essence he simply couldn't keep from asking a few of them.

Do you hear words from within the book? Are you able to comprehend conversation in close proximity to you?

Somehow Brennus's response managed to come across as annoyed. I told you, every moment I spend within the Imaskarcana is another moment I am able to assimilate even more magic. When first I found myself trapped here I understood little, and I would never have been able to speak with anyone for the language of Roushoum was unknown to me. Now you see that not only can I speak with you through the page, but I can also perceive what happens around me – as long as it is within close proximity to the book, of course.

So you heard everything that Dethud said – about Voltain Darkydle, about his liaison, everything. In these words were questions that Lamorak couldn't strike up the nerve to ask: had Brennus also been privy to his disagreement with Phendrana? Did he suspect, as Lamorak himself suspected, that Phendrana's allegiance – and perhaps even his affections – had shifted somewhat since the Twelfth Prince's imprisonment?

Brennus's response made it inescapably clear, though, that he had heard every word. Now is not the time for us to speak of Phendrana.

Of course you are right, Lamorak consented, all too willing to avoid such a delicate subject for the time being. You believe you know where to find the next volume of the Imaskarcana?

Yes. I believe the phrases "a lost kingdom hidden in the spur of a golden mountain" and "ruins beneath the sand, lost in some ancient cataclysm" refer to the Entry of the Gods, the final chapter in the downfall of the kingdom of High Imaskar. In response to the prayers of the Imaskari's mistreated slaves, it is said that the divine being Ao summoned the god Ptah to deliver his wrath upon the wizard-kings of High Imaskar. Ptah then created avatars of Ao to help carry out his divine justice, for the artificers of High Imaskar had grown so powerful that their arcane might rendered them as strong as demigods, and these manifestations journeyed through Wildspace and entered the Material Plane on the peaks of the highest mountains in the northeastern-most reaches of the Imaskari Empire. These peaks are now known as Teyla-Shan, or as they are more commonly called today, the Godswatch Mountains.

Lamorak read and re-read this description quite carefully, his thoughts racing. He was quite familiar with the locations Brennus was referring to, for in the thousands of years that had elapsed since the fall of High Imaskar those lands had become lost within the great Raurin Desert – which was now a portion of Shadovar territory under the rule of High Prince Telamont. Teyla-Shan formed the far northern boundary of the Raurin Desert, and dimly the Third Prince recalled his favorite childhood bedtime story; it was a harrowing tale of ghosts haunting deserted halls and long-forgotten treasure troves hidden beneath golden sands, of djinn resurrected by ancient magic and dragons prowling the highest peaks of windswept mountains. It was the tale of the ruins buried beneath the foothills of the Godswatch Mountains, and it had been told to a young Lamorak dozens of times by Third Queen Maedra.

Hundreds, perhaps even thousands of Imaskari artificers were slain in Teyla-Shan, Lamorak remembered. It stands to reason that one of the Imaskarcana would have been entombed there when that kingdom fell. And if Dethud's liaison has already imparted the particulars of her vision to Voltain Darkydle, we haven't a moment waste.

Then you truly do mean to leave the City of Shade, despite what the fatespinning foretold.

Lamorak was frowning severely down at these words, but of course he had not forgotten perhaps the most critical detail – that according to the prophecy he was destined to do battle with Voltain Darkydle yet again, and he would lose. The Sixth _Imaskarcana_ would be stolen from him, and all that was left of Brennus along with it.

The Most High charged me with putting a stop to Voltain Darkydle and determining a way to return you to life, Lamorak said after several moments of intense deliberation. I did not accept this charge lightly. The power of the Imaskarcana is nigh limitless – one volume has given you the ability to commune with others beyond these pages, and given time and further study who can say what else you might accomplish? Think of all that we could do if two of these books were in our grasp… and now think of the havoc Voltain might wreck if the book fell into his hands. Could he have the strength to lay waste to Thultanthar, and put an end to the last bastion of the Netherese Imperium? I would rather not find out. I must believe that my fate is my own to shape. I must try to keep it from him.

An admirable goal, Brennus responded at once. You have my support, of course, and I will aid you as best I may from here. Voltain may be fluent in Roushoum, but I have an understanding of Imaskari magic that I believe can only be gleaned from studying the books' contents from within. If it is within my power to ensure your victory, I will not fail.

It wasn't until that moment, the instant when Brennus attempted to gloss over how dire the straits and how insurmountable the odds of success were that Lamorak even knew he was anxious for the trials ahead; it was there in the way his hand trembled as he dipped his quill into the inkwell, and he knew his hesitation to respond spoke volumes into his true feelings. Nevertheless he swallowed his fear and penned his final reply to his youngest brother, for he was a proud Prince of Shade, and he would carry on despite that fear.

Then let us be off. I am ready.

It was Razum who arrived with a field report on the Army of Shade's next logical target, just as one of Yder's Divine Champions finished dressing a particularly nasty serrated wound down Clariburnus's left arm with a shadowsilk dressing; the seasoned Shadovar archer wore a bandage over his right eye, the product of an acid spray spell he had sustained in battle against the wizards of Fourth House Mizzrym, and unfortunately it was too soon to tell whether the damage was extensive enough to render the eye useless or not. "My Lord, Third House Faen Tlabbar is the next establishment along the plateau of Qu'ellarz'orl. Our first scouting party reports twice as many foot soldiers as the ranks of House Mizzrym, and no wizards among them."

"So the drow have finally begun to consider a more tactical approach, and have hid their best spellcasters from us." Clariburnus gave a nod of thanks as the Divine Champion tending to his wound finished applying the shadowsilk dressing and strode nearer to where Razum waited patiently, flexing his arm and testing the dressing as he went; it was flexible enough that it wouldn't hinder his movement, yet firm enough that it wouldn't give when he exerted himself. "Wizards are not meant for the front lines – I have said as much before, and I daresay this won't be the last time. I suppose these dark elves have finally learned that lesson, however late it may be."

Razum crooked a wry smile. "I suppose so, My Lord. How should you like to proceed?"

Clariburnus beckoned to his charge and led the way out of the infirmary tent, and they crossed the primary encampment together. All around them members of the militia were tending to minor wounds themselves, for the Army of Shade were all taught basic first aid within their first year of training and keeping up with such skills was considered mandatory for all members who enlisted; those who had sustained more serious wounds had been relocated to one of a handful of infirmary tents, where Sixth Prince Yder's cabal of Divine Champions and a group of artificers invoked a wide array of spells to heal their ailments and injuries. Clariburnus considered them fortunate, for they had seen few casualties since the start of the campaign. Across the encampment the pair admitted themselves into the main base of operations, where Escanor and Rapha were already laying out intricate battle plans; Yder, the undisputed leader of the Divine Champions, was still hard at work in the infirmary tents treating the worst of the wounds.

"Twice the amount of armed warriors as Mizzrym," Clariburnus told his two brothers, as Razum dutifully took up watch at the entrance of the tent and left the Princes of Shade to their planning. "And not a wizard in sight. There is no word yet on how many High Priestesses of Lolth were might expect to be defending the interior of House Faen Tlabbar – I suspect since there is such a large host surrounding the compound our spies have not been able to ascertain that information, and likely won't report back on those numbers before our siege begins."

Rapha spat on the ground; Clariburnus noticed there was a great shadowsilk dressing bound around the Tenth Prince's leg from thigh to knee, and that his brother was favoring that leg considerably. "Yder and the Divine Champions of Shar will make quick work of the priestesses, just as they have done in battles past. It matters not how many there are."

"Yder and the Divine Champions have expended a great deal of magical strength tending to the more grievous wounds amongst our ranks, and will likely not have recovered their spells in time to be of much use when the fighting begins," Escanor corrected. "Even if they have, I would still prefer not to deploy them this time. Enough High Priestesses of Lolth have fallen to the divine spells of Yder's lot, and Faen Tlabbar will be expecting us to take a similar approach – better to alter our battle plans accordingly, and keep the element of surprise on our side if we can. Rapha, you and your hexblades will handle the priestesses this time. We will need the Divine Champions at their full strength for when we inevitably march on Second House Barrison Del'Armgo, and First House Baenre."

This was sound logic in Clariburnus's opinion; Barrison Del'Armgo was widely known for the strength of their military, which according to the earliest field reports was rumored to number even more than the Army of Shade. Conversely House Baenre boasted the largest number of High Priestesses by far, with early estimates over two dozen. The Divine Champions would be a key factor in the defeat of both these houses, and Escanor was right – they needed to be at their very best.

Rapha shrugged as though it hardly mattered. "As you will – it matters not to me. My blade has yet to taste the blood of a drow priestess, and I am keen to rectify that."

"Take what artificers you can muster also," Escanor added, and with a curt nod Rapha swept out of the command center to rally his hexblades; when the Tenth Prince had departed Escanor turned to regard Clariburnus, who was standing by obediently awaiting further instruction. "The absence of Faen Tlabbar's wizards concerns me. Were that Aglarel and his assassins were with us now to root them out."

"Do not let it concern you," urged the Fifth Prince bracingly. "I will put the wizards down myself – it shall be my first priority when battle joins, if you wish it."

"It would set my mind at ease," admitted Escanor, and he pointed at Clariburnus's upper arm with a hint of concern in his eyes. "Are you fit to fight?"

Clariburnus winked in an effort to dispel his brother's worries. "Have you ever known me to shy away from a battle?"

"No, and that is what concerns me so." Escanor flung an arm around Clariburnus's shoulders and steered him out of the command center toward the largest concentration of soldiers resting for the upcoming battle.

Clariburnus put out a hand and brought his eldest brother up short before they came into earshot of the soldiers. "What is it that ails you? Something has been weighing heavily upon your mind, brother. Unburden your heart."

It seemed that Escanor briefly considered waving off the offer of counsel, but the moment of indecision passed quickly. "My shadow link with Soleil seems to be malfunctioning," admitted the First Prince with a disapproving frown. "It has been several days now since I have been able to relay news of our campaign to her. The link remains intact, but we cannot communicate. It is as though some outside force is interfering, but I know not what."

"I cannot say that I am experiencing a similar problem, but it is a problem all the same," Clariburnus confided, glancing all around to ensure they were not being overheard. "Typically I contact the Most High once every three days to keep him abreast of our progress, but just yesterday I called to him and he did not respond. The magic has not faltered – is something amiss back home, I wonder?"

Escanor shook his head emphatically. "That cannot be – the danger is here in front of us. Perhaps the drow have divined some clever means of disrupting our communication spells."

"Perhaps," Clariburnus agreed reluctantly, but there was a lingering uncertainty in his voice and Escanor appeared more troubled than before as he turned away.

They were able to mobilize the Army of Shade within the hour – no small feat, given their impressive numbers – and stole through the tunnels in which they had been hiding since their arrival, making with an expert combination of haste and stealth for the hidden entrances that would lead them into Menzoberranzan via the slums; Clariburnus was moderately concerned to strike at such a formidable house with so many of their Divine Champions occupied outside the battlefield, but Yder had joined them for the siege with a small handful of those he could spare. Rapha's contingent of hexblades was a vicious, slavering bunch, in a frenzy to put their swords through the hearts of the High Priestesses of Lolth rather than yet another drove of male drow foot soldiers, and their excitement for the battle to come gave the Fifth Prince heart. Even Rapha himself appeared to be moving easier despite the wound he had sustained to his leg, though Clariburnus supposed his accelerated regeneration had much to do with his improved condition. All in all it seemed their forces were well-equipped to take on yet another drow house, even one as renown as Faen Tlabbar.

Their march began much the same as the ones that had preceded it – slaves and merchants alike scurried to avoid falling beneath the boots of the Army of Shade as they swept through the slums like a tidal wave, screaming as they hurried into their filthy homes and slammed and locked doors behind them; Clariburnus thought there were fewer people on the streets, odd considering the time of day, but did his best to put it out of his mind. They were through the slums quickly enough with no one to oppose them, and then they turned north and west toward the smoldering wreckage of the ruined drow houses of Qu'ellarz'orl; only three noble houses remained where once not long ago eight had stood, and those houses that remained stood in stark contrast to the still-smoking, dilapidated buildings the Army of Shade had left in their wake. House Faen Tlabbar was nearest, a looming, many-tiered edifice limned in emerald green faerie fire outside of which the host of Faen Tlabbar's militia had already mustered; with numbers to rival even the grand Army of Shade the drow forces were breathtaking to behold, but Clariburnus had trained every single one of the soldiers at his back and believed wholeheartedly in their strength.

By the time they crested the ridge and began fanning out into their initial battle formations it became clear that a lone figure was standing at the head of the drow host, and that it he had even begun to distance himself from his army as he approached them; Clariburnus lifted an arm in wordless command for his soldiers to hold their position, and with a nod to his eldest brother he continued to move forward with Escanor beside him, leaving Rapha and Yder at their backs. Even then, Clariburnus was hardly concerned in isolating himself from the rest of the army. At a single word from either of his younger brothers, the Army of Shade would fly to the aid of their supreme commander and leave not a single living soul in their wake.

The pair of princes paused only when the figure opposite them did the same; perhaps twenty feet separated the warring parties.

"Well met," called Clariburnus to their agreeable adversary. "Have you come to negotiate terms for House Faen Tlabbar's unconditional surrender?"

He couldn't be certain with the distance between them, but the Fifth Prince thought he heard the cloaked figure chuckle softly to himself before lifting his head to regard them. He was far shorter than the two princes and slim like a reed – a sorcerer of some kind, that much was apparent – and when he lowered his hood Clariburnus immediately took note of the distinguished features of nobility. His hair was long, straight, and fine like ivory gossamer, his nose sharply pointed, his brow knit with a severe yet proud frown over eyes of glaring ruby; at his neck he wore a bejeweled choker upon which was etched the insignia of House Baenre in shining silver.

"Actually, no," he responded with a simpering smile that set the fine hairs on the back of Clariburnus's neck on end. "I am here to negotiate terms for the Army of Shade's immediate withdrawal from our city."

Escanor barked out a mirthless laugh which Clariburnus did not share; there was a glint of superiority in this drow's eyes that made the Fifth Prince feel distinctly uneasy, as though he knew something of vital importance about which the rest of them knew nothing. "You are bold, drow," said Escanor with blatant joviality. "Tell us your name."

"I am Gromph Baenre, and I am the Archmage of Sorcere," said Gromph with over-exaggerated cordiality, "and your occupancy of Menzoberranzan ends tonight. Leave now, and never return, or you will suffer severe consequences."

"Allow me to point out that thus far we have bested you handily," Clariburnus pointed out diplomatically. "Your armies have fled before the might of Thultanthar. Your wizards and priestesses are being slaughtered in droves. If your people do not surrender soon, there will be none of your kind left to worship that foul arachnid you call a goddess. So tell us, Archmage Gromph Baenre… what reason could you have to come before us so confidently and call for our withdrawal? To my eye, we hold every advantage."

"You did," Gromph corrected smugly, "until very recently. You see, to the drow, betrayal is something of a second language – it is nothing to us to turn against a former friend, or long-time colleague, or a temporary ally. And the lengths to which we are willing to go to take revenge against those who have wronged us are limitless. The Spider Queen always rewards those who spread chaos and discord, no matter how far it seems they have fallen out of her favor. Strike a fatal enough blow, and she will exalt you above all others. There is nothing more paramount to Lolth's teachings than this."

"You speak in riddles," Escanor drawled, growing bored with the drow's prolonged show of bravado. "Either explain yourself, or prepare to do battle. We did not come here to bandy pleasantries with you."

Gromph shrugged, and the mischief in his eyes seemed to flare to life; in the pit of his stomach, Clariburnus felt a thrill of foreboding. "My apologies – it was not my intention to bore you. Allow me to show you what I mean."

The Archmage waved one hand in a complex pattern through the air – Escanor and Clariburnus both laid hands upon the hilts of their weapons, eying him warily – and behind him the air shimmered and coalesced into a reflective silvery screen; as the light faded a clearer image formed, that of a sickeningly familiar shade with amber eyes and a wicked smile. At his side stood a slightly smaller drow wearing the garb of an assassin whose face was partly obscured by the cowl he wore, and though he had no way to be certain Clariburnus was convinced that this was the drow who had murdered Hadrhune.

"Lim Tal'eyve," growled Escanor, his blood boiling with rage. "I might have known. How did you escape from the dungeons?"

The drow-shade's laughter rang out from the projection but echoed dully, as though he was not as close as he appeared; Clariburnus assumed the visage was an illusion, and knew that in that instance Lim could be anywhere. "Forgive me for not answering your questions, Prince Escanor, but I have very little time to converse with you. Now that I have been welcomed back into Menzoberranzan with open arms, I am a very busy man. I just happen to have something here that might interest you, and might even force you to reconsider your next course of action."

He and the drow beside him stepped away from one another, bringing into view two figures that were huddled previously unseen behind them; there was no mistaking either of them, even through the gently-undulating surface of Gromph Baenre's illusion. It was Soleil and Aveil, bound and gagged and barely conscious, prostrated like sacrificial offerings at Lim Tal'eyve's feet.

Escanor howled with rage to see his new bride in such a deplorable condition and leapt forward, a kind of crazed madness in his eyes as he drew his sword from its sheath; Clariburnus moved quickly to intercept him before he could strike at Gromph, though, and managed to parry the heavy blow away with a swipe of his glaive. Having not expected any retaliation from his brother Escanor actually dropped his blade, and before he could stoop to retrieve it Yder and Rapha were there restraining him.

"I'll kill you!"shrieked the First Prince, his anguished screams reverberating off the cavernous shelf of Qu'ellarz'orl. "I will murder every last one of you! The Dark Mother help me, if you so much as lay a single finger on the princess – "

"What do you want?" Clariburnus overrode him, his eyes focusing first upon the victorious projection of Lim Tal'eyve before at last settling upon the far more composed Archmage of Menzoberranzan. "What is your price? What do you demand in exchange for their safety?"

"It's simple," Gromph mused. "Withdraw your troops at once from our city and send them back to your cursed island in the sky. Once you have done that, we will contact you again with further instructions. If you follow our demands to the letter, you need not worry for their safety. I can personally guarantee they will not be harmed, as long as you comply from this moment forward."

"And what guarantee do we have that this is not just some macabre ploy?" Clariburnus all but bellowed, for behind him Escanor was in paroxysms of madness, making it difficult for anything else to be heard. "Some twisted trick to achieve your own desired outcome?"

Lim's face broke out into a truly devious smile when he answered, "Do you really want to be the one responsible for what happens if you don't take our demands seriously, Prince?"

"Clariburnus," called Yder through gritted teeth, for it was taking all the strength he and Rapha could muster just to keep Escanor from breaking loose and throttling Archmage Baenre. "We have no choice but to withdraw. We cannot risk any harm coming to the Princess, and the Sceptrana is an invaluable asset to the Most High. If anything happened to them – "

"We cannot abide this slight against our resolve, or defy the High Prince's will!" Rapha countered. "He has charged us with the complete and merciless eradication of this city for the death of Hadrhune. If he learns that we abandoned the resounding success of this campaign all on account of the treacherous words of the drow – "

"Enough!" Clariburnus roared, and stooping to retrieve Escanor's forgotten sword his eyes narrowed menacingly as he said, "On my word as Fifth Prince of Shade, I will issue a full retreat immediately. Our troops will withdraw from the city and make for the surface right away. Once that is done, I expect to negotiate terms for the safe and speedy release of both the Princess and the Sceptrana. As a show of my full cooperation, I vow that I will not send along a representative of mine to conduct these negotiations – I will participate myself, at a time and place you designate. Do we have an accord?"

Lim opened his mouth quickly, a clear challenge upon his lips, but Gromph smoothly overrode him, saying, "That is acceptable. Make good on your promise of a full retreat, and we will negotiate further. Until then, Lady Tanthul and Lady Arthien will remain in our custody."

"Where they will not be harmed?" Clariburnus reiterated, feeling increasingly more helpless by the second.

Gromph's face grew cold, forbidding. "Do not make me repeat myself, Prince. I have already given you my word that your cooperation buys their safety. Continue to make good on your promises, and you will ensure their survival."

"So be it," the Fifth Prince snarled, and though every fiber of his being screamed for him not to he put his back to Archmage Baenre and the awful projection of Soleil and Aveil helpless at the hands of one of Thultanthar's bitterest enemies, motioning for his brothers to follow him.

The sound of Clariburnus ordering a retreat, coupled with the anguished cries of the hysterical First Prince Escanor, was like the sweetest tune Lim Tal'eyve had ever heard.

All too soon Lamorak found himself on the outskirts of the Lower District near the veserab stables, contemplating the benefits and drawbacks of mounting one of the winged beasts and opting for a more controlled descent into Anauroch Desert versus trusting to the magic radiating from the _Imaskarcana_ to simply take him where he desired to go. He knew that time was of the essence, knew that every moment he delayed was a moment that Voltain Darkydle might be drawing nearer to the priceless tome they now both sought to claim, but more than the urgency of his impending mission Lamorak felt deeply and profoundly exhausted. Suddenly, without any real explanation at all, he didn't want any part of it – he was tired of fighting for his life, and watching everyone around him fight one another, but most of all he was tired of fighting against his own emotions. More than anything he wished he could sleep, for days or weeks or years even, and not wake up until these nightmares were far behind him. All he wanted was for the turmoil to settle, to feel as though he could breathe again.

But he couldn't. And suddenly he was facing the fight of his life, and he was doomed to face it all alone. Despair threatened to rise up and swallow him down into its icy depths, and he gritted his teeth and clenched the hand not supporting the _Imaskarcana_ into a tight fist at his side –

And then a voice rang out from behind him, so unexpected that he actually flinched.

"Lamorak! Wait! Please!"

He turned slowly and somewhat incredulously, amazed that anyone had come at all, to find a familiar doppelganger standing there clutching a stitch in his side as though he had run all the way from The Circle to reach Lamorak in time; his face was set in a stubborn frown as though he had yet to fully relinquish his anger, but there was such acute anguish burning in his eyes that Lamorak nearly gasped aloud. For a moment that seemed to span an eternity they stared at one another, though neither was rendered speechless – rather, they both had so many words to say that neither could think just where to begin.

"Phendrana? What is it?" When at last Lamorak spoke the words came out unmistakably raw, as though he hadn't spoken in years, or perhaps had forgotten how. Shaking his head in an attempt to better compose himself he tried again, face impassive, tone aloof. "I have very little time."

"Then…" The doppelganger stumbled forward a step, hands outstretched as if in prayer. "You're really going?"

"Of course I'm going," Lamorak snapped in a sudden rage, half pleased and half ashamed at the look of sorrow with which Phendrana regarded him now. "I am tasked with preserving the safety of the High Prince, all of my brothers, and the lives of every single being residing in Thultanthar. This is something to celebrate, Phendrana. Imagine the honors the Most High will heap upon my shoulders when I return victorious!"

His forced bravado did not sit well with Phendrana, whose face contorted into an expression of utmost fury. "This mission can only end in failure! You cannot hope to defeat Voltain Darkydle singlehandedly! The _Imaskarcana_ is the product of superior intellect, and he knows it better than anyone! How can you think to stand against him in this instance?! Your life will be forfeit!"

"My life is not worth living if I am not strong enough to exterminate a simple threat to my homeland," Lamorak protested in a steely undertone, his eyes flashing his displeasure, but if he thought a single threat would be enough to cow Phendrana he was mistaken.

"It isn't just a simple threat, Lamorak!" the doppelganger roared, stamping his foot to emphasize his point. "It is the rebirth of a civilization far older than yours! I beg of you, please, reconsider!"

There was a desperation to Phendrana's heartfelt plea that seemed to bring the Third Prince up short, and abruptly all the fight flew from him; reluctantly he closed the distance between them until Phendrana was within arm's reach, then he put out a hand and squeezed the doppelganger's shoulder reassuringly. "I'm sorry my friend, but I can't abandon this course of action simply because you ask it of me. And now…" Lamorak swallowed hard, pained by the prospect of what he must do but resolved to do it all the same. "I must ask you to return to your home and stay there – I have a duty to fulfill."

It took far more effort than it should have for Lamorak to wrench his hand off of Phendrana's shoulder, but he managed it valiantly in the end; sparing a melancholy smile for the doppelganger he turned away and advanced to the extreme boundary of the enclave, the precipice where the city ended in a sheer drop down toward the desert that loomed, untamed and limitless, a mile below. And though he meant to leave that as his parting note to the man of whom he had grown so fond, Phendrana had no intention of standing quietly by and allowing him to pursue such a fool's errand.

"Don't walk away from me!" Phendrana shrieked in a voice that was now quite deranged, and though that voice plucked painfully at something foreign deep within Lamorak's chest he did not allow himself to turn around again; he knew that if he did he might abandon his charge altogether, and that was the one thing he knew the High Prince would never forgive. Instead he dropped his chin down upon his chest and sucked in a shuddering breath, struggling yet again but failing to completely sublimate the agony he felt.

"I see no reason why I should stay."

And there it was at last – the crux of the matter, the subject they had both been avoiding since the High Prince had encouraged Phendrana to aid Lamorak in any way he could. For months Phendrana had been stubbornly clinging to the love he'd lost, convinced that if he stayed true to Brennus the loremaster would somehow find his way back and they would be together again. Looking at Lamorak now, fearing that it was the last time he would ever lay eyes on the man who had been so generous and loyal in the wake of Brennus's disappearance, Phendrana knew that if he didn't speak the words he'd been battling back for so long he would always regret it. He managed two unsteady paces in Lamorak's direction, and then he simply couldn't contain the words any longer.

"I need you, Lamorak," Phendrana whispered, his voice barely audible, but he knew Lamorak had heard by the way the Third Prince's spine suddenly straightened as though a shock coursed through his veins. "I need you to stay with me. I can't lose anyone else. My… my heart couldn't bear it if some ill befell you."

"Ah, I see your aim," Lamorak answered in a flat, lifeless voice. "You mean to play these wretched emotions I've developed against me to ensure a favorable outcome. I'm disappointed in you, Phendrana. I cannot say I approve of such an underhanded method."

Phendrana leapt forward with an animalistic snarl, seizing the Third Prince by the elbow and spinning him around until they were standing face to face; Lamorak's eyes had grown wide, his pupils blown. "Damn you, Lamorak, this isn't a game! I'm asking you to stay with me! I can't lie to either of us anymore! Please, I'm begging you – don't go!"

Then with wild eyes and shaking hands Phendrana gripped Lamorak none-too-gently by the shoulders and dragged him closer still, until their lips met in a rough and desperate rush; Lamorak's mouth was warm and inviting and molded perfectly to his own, though he was no less passionate in his approach to their stolen moment of intimacy. Phendrana could feel Lamorak's hands pressing insistently into his shoulder blades, gripping his waist, framing his hips, and the doppelganger held on until his lungs ached for air and he broke away, gasping and quaking. In the instant their lips met the world and all its terrors seemed less horrifying, if only for a moment, and everything made sense.

And then it was over.

Lamorak pressed his forehead against Phendrana's and inhaled deeply, as though in an attempt to commit the other man's scent to memory, and for a moment the mindmaster was utterly convinced that Lamorak meant to stay; the moment passed, though, when the Third Prince reluctantly drew back and released him, a newfound resolve burning brightly in his eyes. Staring at Lamorak expectantly, knowing that he had just surrendered his heart yet again, Phendrana suddenly felt more alone than he'd ever been.

"You have my word," Lamorak vowed softly, "that when I emerge victorious over Voltain Darkydle, I will come back for you."

Then the Third Prince stepped right up to the precipice, and leapt.

The blue dragon hide cover of the Sixth _Imaskarcana_ flipped open as Lamorak fell, its pages rippling back and forth in the brutal slipstreams, but he had no fear of them tearing in the wind for he knew instinctively that the enchantments woven into the vellum rendered them stronger than most materials despite their thinness. In time the book fell open to the familiar black quartz page upon which Lamorak had come to expect Brennus's handwriting to be scrawled and sure enough his brother was communicating with him that very instant, tidy golden manuscript flashing in the harsh amber-gold sun.

_East to the highest spur of the mountains, and then we will need to descend to the surface in order to find a way into the ruins. They are vast and largely buried beneath the sands – we have a difficult task ahead of us._

Lamorak didn't answer, mostly because he was under the impression that he needed to handwrite his response; a friendly breeze blew in from behind and slightly below his still-plummeting form, and though it didn't carry nearly enough force to alter his trajectory he suddenly found himself soaring in the direction Brennus had described. He continued streaking through the sky like a desert falcon, but he no longer felt as though he was careening out of control with no way to stop himself from falling to certain death. Knowing that his imprisoned brother had manipulated the wind to blow more favorably both impressed and bothered Lamorak; it was a sure sign that Brennus's claims of assimilating magic at an almost alarming rate were more than mere braggadocio, and if Lamorak ever fulfilled his promise to the High Prince and restored the loremaster to his physical form he would be mighty indeed.

Mighty enough to overthrow any who stood in his way, including his own brothers? The idea was a haunting one, and a shudder that had nothing at all to do with the climate bolted down Lamorak's spine as he soared ever eastward.

He was alone with his thoughts as he made the journey, buffeted along by Brennus's clever utilization of the _Imaskarcana_'s innate powers, and inevitably he found his mind drifting back to his final confrontation with Phendrana. He had never meant to succumb to the emotions he felt for the doppelganger for a variety of reasons – not least of which was the punishment heaped upon Brennus's shoulders when he began to favor the mindmaster's cause over even the High Prince's agenda – but caring for Phendrana was just so _easy_. He possessed a natural charisma that many people gravitated to naturally, his superior intellect made him one of the most fascinating people living in the entire enclave, and he was genuine and compassionate in a way that seemed foreign to most Shadovar. Lamorak recalled the heat of Phendrana's hands with a kind of shocking clarity, and the way their lips had naturally molded to one another, and found himself wishing that he hadn't departed the City of Shade at all. The ancient exhaustion he'd been struggling to sublimate since before Phendrana had come upon him returned twofold at this thought, the urge for dreamless sleep stronger than ever before, but he reminded himself yet again that he was loyal to the Most High and that he would see his mission through to the end no matter the outcome.

So absorbed was he by his musings that Lamorak almost did not sense the other presence approaching; as if for confirmation he glanced down at the black quartz page to find that Brennus had scripted yet another passage for his benefit.

_He is here_.

The breeze faded; Lamorak floated in place, pillowed upon an invisible force that kept him from falling, and gazed eastward to where his destination loomed so close and yet so very far away. He wondered if he would have arrived in time had he not allowed himself to be waylaid by Phendrana. He supposed he would have faced Voltain either way, for a fatespinner's prophecy was as good as etched into the annals of time. He wondered if he would die here.

He wondered if any of these things mattered.

Voltain Darkydle appeared before him then as if from nowhere, his severe black hair whipping chaotically around his gaunt face, his cool jade eyes impassive; in the crook of his right arm he supported the Fifth _Imaskarcana_, just as he had the first time he had invited himself into Thultanthar in an attempt to steal the tome Lamorak now carried. There was something in the way he carried himself, so majestic and self-assured, that made the Third Prince wonder if the foe he was about to face was beyond even his skill to defeat.

That was when his adversary spoke, his tone vexed. "I pondered to myself on the way here: how could you possibly know where to go? Who could have told you, and when? And I arrived at the conclusion that you must also be one of Illyria's fate-touched playthings. So tell me, Prince Lamorak – how long have you been skirting around behind my back, preying upon her curiosity and naivety to coerce the information you desired out of her?"

"I'm afraid you've got me all wrong," Lamorak assured in a deadpan, snapping his book shut with a smart flick of his hand and tucking it protectively against his torso, feeling fiercely protective of it with the self-proclaimed Lord Artificer of Deep Imaskar mere feet away. "I am unfamiliar with this Illyria, on my honor."

Voltain barked out a single harsh, disbelieving laugh. "Your _honor_?" he sneered, tightening his grip on the Fifth _Imaskarcana_, and as Lamorak watched with mounting incredulity the heavens above them darkened and swirled with angry storm clouds; a stroke of thunder split the sky, followed almost immediately by another, an ill omen of what was to come. "You have no honor to speak of. You come from a race of thieves and liars – you lay claim to lands that don't belong to you and you seek out precious artifacts you could never in your wildest dreams hope to create. Your kind survives on greed and dishonesty and an unquenchable lust for power that will one day soon prove to be the end of you, for in seeking the _Imaskarcana_ you doom yourselves to sure ruin. You and your kin are too weak to wield them, to incite any sort of real change in this world. Give me the Sixth _Imaskarcana_ and be on your way – only I am worthy of wielding it. Only I have the power to bring about change."

"I will freely admit that you are a sorcerer of unparalleled skill," said Lamorak begrudgingly, even as the first droplets of a cold rain began to fall, "but your arrogance will keep you from reaching the heights of greatness that you seek. There is always someone mightier than us lurking unseen in the shadows, waiting for when the time is right to overthrow us and forge the path toward a greater tomorrow – and it never happens until we have foolishly convinced ourselves that we can never be bested. Even if you somehow manage to defeat me here today, someone will rise up and avenge me. Your reign can never hope to last."

Lightning streaked the sky directly behind Voltain Darkydle, casting his silhouette into sharp relief and momentarily blinding Lamorak. "I intend to lead my people back to the surface to begin a glorious new age – for too long we have lived in the dark, and no one will stand in the way of the wizard-kings of Imaskar as we seek the light."

"And I have no qualms with your desire to better the lives of your people," Lamorak explained, "but if you mean to take this book from me to achieve your ends, I will have no choice but to stop you."

"You could never hope to accomplish such a feat," scoffed Voltain, and with that the wind roared to a gale all around them and rain pelted down with the force of icy-cold steel; for a moment the Lord Artificer was only a menacing dark shape swaddled within the tempest he had conjured, but then Lamorak remembered himself and let the Sixth _Imaskarcana_ fall open in the palm of his hand.

To the black quartz page in which lived on the spirit of his dear youngest brother, where Lamorak found scrawled the words: I am with you.

A stroke of white lightning streaked from the roiling black clouds but Lamorak was ready, and barking a single command word in the harsh language of Roushoum he erected a glittering crystalline wall before him; the lightning struck the sheet of crystal with a horrid shriek before glancing off its perfectly reflective surface and rebounding back upon its caster. Voltain clapped his hands together once and the lightning shattered upon impact, the bolt reduced to millions of particles of blindingly bright diamond dust, and they mingled with the whipping amber sands before scattering out of sight. He launched yet another bolt, and then another, casting them in rapid succession and certain he would catch Lamorak at unawares, but the Third Prince merely copied him managed to transform those cruel bolts into the same fine white powder as his enemy had. This brought Voltain up short, for the ability to transmute energy was one that had taken him extensive time and effort to learn, and as he stood there seething Lamorak watched as the fine grains of ivory sand slipped through his fingers like a sieve.

"Impossible," Voltain swore, squaring his shoulders and shaking the voluminous sleeves of his robes back to free his hands.

"No," Lamorak argued, "I simply hold an advantage that you do not, and I cannot afford to lose."

"Curse your advantage! It will not save you!" Voltain flew at him out of the gloom like a wraith, his dark shape barely distinguishable against the blackness of the storm clouds; Lamorak thrust out one arm and conjured a flash of artificial light directly in front of him, but failed to illuminate his adversary when Voltain's body transformed into a rush of clear water and crashed over him with the force of the unforgiving sea. Lamorak spluttered and labored for breath, but the water unerringly crept into his lungs and blacked out his vision –

The tome in his hand grew alarmingly warm, and with it the water threatening to drown him suddenly turned to air; Lamorak breathed in deeply, feeling revitalized as Voltain reappeared a little off-balance. Now Lamorak pressed the advantage, first conjuring a thick cloud of darkest shadow that wrapped Voltain up like a blanket before contracting around him like a deadly snake. Voltain growled and thrashed against the encroaching blackness but there was nothing for him to cling to, for though the shadows were slowly crushing the air from his lung they were not tangible and so could not be touched. The Lord Artificer gasped and wheezed for air, his face reddening from lack of oxygen, and Lamorak was certain he had won until Voltain managed to spit a single command phrase that transformed the grasping shadows into a harmless mist; Voltain straightened and waved his hand as though he was swatting an irksome fly, in effect clearing the silvery fog.

The clouds were churning ominously overhead, and within them a very distinct phenomena was taking shape; Lamorak stood by, aghast, as a funnel cloud began to dip from the sky, further intensifying the winds until the Third Prince could scarcely see. The moment the twister touched down its course changed most unnaturally until it was on course to sweep Lamorak up and swallow him in its depths for good; the winds were so intense now that an unearthly, ear-splitting howl was all he could hear, and the winds were buffeting him so viciously that they felt like hundreds of invisible razors slicing into his flesh. Lamorak held one hand aloft and cried out to the heavens, and with a flash of crimson light a weapon suddenly appeared in his grasp; Lamorak chose not to question good fortune and tightened his hand around the hilt of a wicked whip whose lash was a tongue of blazing fire, and with a powerful snap of his arm he sent the last spiraling toward the rampaging tornado. The whip elongated and grew to thirty, forty, fifty times its original length before lassoing the twister, and Lamorak held fast to the hilt with all his strength as he snapped the whip yet again; the funnel cloud shuddered as though the winds that comprised it had dissipated without warning, and then it changed course and chartered a path directly toward Voltain Darkydle. The Lord Artificer snapped his fingers and the tornado vanished in a puff of acrid smoke; Lamorak recalled the flaming lash and coiled it around his arm, prepared to call it forth again if the need arose.

"You try my patience," Voltain cried over the roaring gale. "Why do you insist in denying me all that is rightfully mine?"

This time Lamorak chose not to answer, for he knew that arguing would distract him from the task at hand; yet another bolt of lightning streaked toward him but the book he held reacted defensively, and Lamorak's arm lifted as though of its own accord and he actually seized the crackling energy in his fist and held it fast. He flew at Voltain in a rush, the bolt clenched in his fist like a shining, pulsating sword, and it was all the Lord Artificer could do just to avoid the primal slashes of the prince's deadly weapon. Stretching out one hand Voltain uttered a guttural command that tugged the bolt free from Lamorak's hand as though it was magnetized, but even then Lamorak simply uncoiled the lash of dripping flame and snapped it out to intercept his stolen weapon. When the two weapons collided a shock wave rolled off of them from the point of impact, bowling both sorcerers over in midair and sending them reeling with the invisible force of the blow –

Voltain recovered first, and the Fifth Imaskarcana glowed briefly like a firefly in the darkness before every single cloud in the sky vanished.

Heralding the return of the full, brutal glare of the midday sun.

The protective veil of shadows that clung to Lamorak's body at all times had thinned to the barest wisp of gray vapor when the storm had rolled in, for in the near-complete lack of light he hadn't been in dire need of them; the spell was so masterfully cast, though, that his highly-adaptable shade's body hadn't the regenerative capability to thicken the curtain of blackness to preserve him from the full force of the sun's rays, something that was fatal to even the strongest of shades. In an instant the last of the shadows were burned away and there was nothing left to protect him from the searing golden light.

His body melted away as though it had been nothing but a mere shadow all along. His bones grew black and brittle, and cracked like dry driftwood in a campfire. He was screaming in agony. He _was _agony.

And then he was falling, his body swiftly disintegrating, until what remained scattered like black ash and disappeared amongst the clouds of stinging amber sand.

It was an exceedingly rare occasion that High Prince Telamont actually retired to his private quarters within the palace, and rarer still that he allowed himself to sleep. Sleep, he believed, was a luxury that all-powerful monarchs such as himself had no right indulging in, for there was always another crisis to solve, a battle to be fought, counsel to give. But as the tragedies of the day piled higher and there seemed to be no reprieve in sight he was ashamed to admit that he began to crave a moment or two of solitude, for no other reason than to be alone with his grief. If he had a heart, he was certain it would be breaking. He had been watching his family deteriorate since the weighty loss of Brennus – he hadn't imagined that the state of things would worsen. How very wrong he was.

He felt compelled to seek a moment to himself, and that was how he found the letter. It was lying in the center of his lavish bed and looked as though it had been there for hours, for it was slightly rumpled from prolonged candlelight exposure and the ink upon it appeared to have long since dried. He'd picked it up immediately and automatically, almost as if he'd expected to find it there all along.

Perhaps he had.

The handwriting was intimately familiar, and did nothing to lessen his crippling grief.

My Sovereign, My Dread Lord, My Holy Father,

By the time you lay eyes upon this shameful letter of mine, I will be far from your kingdom. Do not despair, for I deserve none of your pity. Had I obeyed your expectations from the start, I would never have felt compelled to leave your side.

You were right about me – you have been right all along. I do not begrudge you that; I am grateful. Because of you I finally feel able to face the truth of the man I have become. You see, all this time I was convinced that I could not properly serve you whilst loving another. I did not think I could devote myself entirely to furthering your glorious agenda and also be a man beyond reproach in the eyes of the woman who has stolen my heart. I did not think I could embrace the truth of who I am without losing the man I have worked so hard to become.

Because of you, I am beginning to think I can be all of those things, and more. I can be anything that you require, for I am, now and always, your most devoted and obedient subject. But for now, I must devote myself to another.

If facing your wrath for an eternity is the price I must pay in exchange for preserving Aveil's life, I am prepared to pay it. I will happily suffer your displeasure until the end of my days if that is what you see fit, and I will never complain. My loyalty to you shall never waver.

But where once there was one, now there are two.

You asked me how far I was willing to go, and how much I was willing to sacrifice, to save the one I love, and now I know the answer. I am willing to traverse the Underdark alone and face the nightmares of Menzoberranzan to save her. And that is what I must do now – for her selfless acts of sacrifice, for her fierce loyalty, for her unfaltering devotion, I know now that I owe Aveil my life. And if I must trade my life for hers, I will know I have made the right choice.

Know that I remain your most dedicated servant, and nothing is dearer to my heart than your trust and faith in me. They are my most priceless treasures, and I will never cease to cherish them.

But I must do this.

Telamont could only bear to read the letter once – after that, his despair was so great that he felt oddly mortal beneath the weight of it. He laid the sheaf of parchment aside upon his bedside table, to be pondered later when his heart didn't feel quite so unbearably heavy. And laying down upon his bed the High Prince of the City of Shade closed his eyes and slept for the first time in years, for no better reason than to escape the crippling agonies of the world for just a little while.


End file.
